


By Land or By Sea

by AlyssaPierceArrow



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Black Petticoat Society, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-01-20 06:55:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 98,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1501004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssaPierceArrow/pseuds/AlyssaPierceArrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlotte Adams has left her brothers and her home in Virginia for Setauket, to embrace the protection of her great aunt Catharine Woodhull.  But safety is not guaranteed anywhere in the colonies.  Intelligent, dignified, and an ardent (albeit now closeted) patriot, she could soon prove useful to her cousin Abraham and the rest of the Culper Spy Ring.  And she will soon prove invaluable to Major Benjamin Tallmagde, in particular, though for different reasons altogether.  [Ben Tallmadge/OFC]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> On [my Tumblr](http://alyssavonkirkbride.tumblr.com) you'll find the BLoBS playlist, as well as many more TURN related goodies!  
> This is the amazing cover designed by LuckySilverBell for BLoBS and [Nom de Guerre!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1621412/chapters/3456488)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably in her whalebone stays, jostled by the movements of her efficient, if not entirely comfortable, Berlin carriage.  Certainly, the accoutrements inside: silk cushions, down padded seats, and ample room to stretch her legs, were more than adequate, but like most other things in her life, she found it like she found her stays: confining.  Her off white flowered robe anglaise, wrinkled, no doubt, in the five hours they had traveled since breakfast, was pulled, along with her petticoats, up to her calves, her stockinged feet free for now of the Louis heels she’d cast to the floor as she propped her ankles up on the opposite bench beside Sukey. She fidgeted her toes inside her thin white silk stockings, watching them wriggle beneath the fabric. She stared at the book in her lap, the fifth she’d read along this particular journey, too anxious to open its pages.  

Then she exhaled, audibly.  She squished her right pannier slightly when she shifted to the right and tilted her head to look out the window at the passing fields and trees, longing to be sat on a blanket on or beneath any one of them, instead of stuck in what she’d taken to calling “that cursed box,” in the two weeks they’d been traveling to Long Island from Virginia. 

Behind them, at a slower pace, came a second carriage, carrying most of her trunks, manned by Phillip and attended by Sadie. Charlotte could see them occasionally when she looked out the window, several hundred yards behind. She pulled absentmindedly at one of the thick, spiral accent curls that wasn’t pinned to the modest, afternoon updo at the back of her head, one of a few Sukey had left loose for decoration. She let go and it sprung back into place.  When she reached for it again, Sukey leaned across for her hand and took it gently, pulling it away from her head as a direction to stop, placing it in her lap.

She and Sukey had been together so long they could communicate over several long hours with one another without so much as a word spoken. 

Charlotte was only thankful that they were being conveyed to a safe place.  It had been her suggestion to stay with her great aunt Catharine Woodhull in Setauket, a woman who lived alone with a bevy of servants but frequently enjoyed the company of social acquaintances, none a more frequent companion than her nephew Richard. Thankfully, this particular aunt was also adept at games of appearance and neutrality, though she entertained and allowed for quiet appreciation of patriot sympathies, something Charlotte appreciated greatly.  Charlotte’s brothers, patriots all four, had mostly departed with the Virginia Continental Army, the eldest staying behind to manage their modest plantation, where they grew tobacco and hemp.  Charlotte, yet unmarried at age twenty-two, had been called to her brother’s study two months before on the unhappy errand of discussing all manner of negative implications to come, and her relative safety.  While her brothers admired and cultivated their younger sister’s patriotic sensibilities, they understood the value of passing unnoticed by regulars, especially for the fairer sex. William, now head of their family since the death of their father and mother, had told her that sometimes the best hiding place is in plain sight, and if she could hold her temper, and manage to keep her stinging wit to herself, she could pass the conflict in relative safety with her honor in tact.  Known loyalist Richard Woodhull was said to hold a respected place as magistrate in Setauket, and their kindly great aunt, known as a friendly and well respected, if direct, dowager, would be Charlotte’s cover.  Charlotte had passed the weeks waiting for the reply that would seal her new arrangement in a tense, angry stupor. Wanting terribly to act out childish impulses that would have her raging against her brother for sending her away, his concern both for her welfare and for the fate of the colonies, coupled with the heavy hearted way he seemed now to approach all of his tasks, and the notion that she may not see him for a terribly long time, stayed her fury. It did nothing for her frustration.

Now, at the end of her journey, she wished she had perhaps protested further.  They were approaching Setauket, having been ferried over from New Jersey without much fuss after their papers had been passed, though the increase in lobster backs as they traveled north had served to increase her anxiety significantly. Charlotte turned towards Sukey, who gave her a sympathetic smile, and shifted Charlotte’s bergere hat, resting flat on her lap.

She turned her thoughts to her cousin Abraham, who she hadn’t seen in a great many years, and of his friends Anna and Caleb, of whom she’d always been fond.  At least she’d have companions, or if not companions, acquaintances of her own age. She wondered how much Setauket had changed since she had last been to visit, and thought there was no need to speculate, as she’d soon find out. 

Sukey cast glances in Charlotte’s direction, as her mistress looked pitifully out the window in her continual presentation of her vexed state, and shook her head.  She was often startled, looking at Charlotte, by how stunningly beautiful the girl was. Round and pale of face, with dark brown eyes, and hair that could be called strawberry blonde and red and brown all at once, in different mingling colors, she had a natural, fresh look to her, one almost universally admired.  But she could be so stubborn, and terribly sour.  Thakfully, Sukey was certain, she would soon return to her generally optimistic and mischevious, slightly dark humored countenance. She always preferred her mistress snarky and rife with wit, to the sulking child who sometimes appeared when Charlotte was uncomfortable confronting her grief and resentment of elements outside her control. 

When Sukey was alerted by the change in scenery outside the carriage, and by the texture of the ground, as communicated through the wheels, that they had turned off onto the private way leading to house, she helped Charlotte into her shoes and placed her flat hat onto her head, tying the ribbons carefully behind and underneath her updo.  As she was being attended to, Charlotte had the opportunity to raise her eyes out the window to view the ocean, and their close proximity to Long Island sound, delighted that she would, at least, be living at the water’s very edge. Charlotte smoothed her dress to the best of her ability, and, despite the cramped confines of the carriage, was implored by Sukey to turn around in several directions to be sure that her garments and adornments were in place.  When at last the carriage came to a stop the in circular driveway of the stone estate, she waited in the carriage as her driver took down her footplate so she could step down.  Lifting herself up out of her seat, she turned towards the carriage door as it was opened for her. Stepping down, she caught the hand that was offered to her, and smiled up at her aunt’s afternoon visitor, Richard Woodhull.

Charlotte smiled, stepping down onto the ground. “Hello, Uncle.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if these first few chapters are a bit boring and we don't get to see any Turn characters, they will arrive next chapter; I just wanted a chance to set the scene and layout of what Great Aunt Catharine's home is like, as it will come into play later.

What woke Charlotte was the light.  Then the muted clank-clank-clank of the curtain rod as Sukey used the drapery pull to open her curtains. Charlotte sat up and yawned, lifting her arms over her head in a grand gesture meant to rouse herself to meet the morning. Instead she flopped her hands down beside her and sighed, chewing the inside of her cheek as she often did.

“Gon’ be warm today. Windy, though.” Sukey said, opening the third set of drapes, the high ceilinged room and its white walls flooding with more late morning light.

The enormous fireplace across from her, ornate and freshly cleaned, remained free of ash and coal. Nor for long, Charlotte thought, though it had been warm the night before, and would be today it seemed as well. Gracious great aunt Catharine had fed her well after their short visit with Uncle Richard the afternoon before, and then sent her straight up to bed to refresh and recover from her long journey. Tonight, however, she’d be able to see not only her cousin Abraham and his father, but Abraham’s wife and child, who she had never had occasion to meet. 

Charlotte crawled to the end of her four poster bed, the curtains left hanging open and flush against the floor, and peeked around the canopy posts to see if she was missing someone. She scrunched up her mouth.  “Where’s Sadie?” she asked Sukey.

“Unpacking your things. Most need hanging and airing, some need laundering.”  Charlotte noticed, however, that a complete day dress, flanked by all accompanying articles which could possibly be necessitated upon dressing her, was laid out as they always were, as though the individual wearing them had laid down and simply disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a set of confining garments. The dress was a lovely blend of silk, dyed a light apricot color.   Sukey slid the last set of curtains back and looked at her charge.

Sensing her cue, Charlotte slid from beneath the mass of covers under which she’d been buried, walking behind a wood and silk dressing screen by a far corner of the rug that dominated the center of the room.  Unceremoniously, she pulled her nightgown off only to be daubed with perfume and traded for a fresh chemise by Sukey.  She picked up her stockings and sat at the small white, mirrored vanity to the right of her fireplace.  While she ran them up her legs and tied them above her knee with ribbons Sukey had selected (because she knew Charlotte wouldn’t bother to match them), Sukey untied the rags she’d used to set Charlotte’s hair after her bath the night before, shaking the tangled silky corkscrews out of Charlotte’s head gently with her fingers.

“All right,” Sukey said, with a gentle prodding of Charlotte’s back.  Charlotte sighed and stood, bending forward so Sukey could put her first petticoat on her and help her into her stays.  She wondered, while Sukey dressed her, what her brothers were doing at that very moment. Teddy, Nathaniel and Edward, lately of the 12th Virginia, were now so far away from her, and intentionally in danger, though she believed with all her heart in that for which they stood. And she wondered after William, the eldest, who now stood alone at the farm, who had sacrificed her company at home because he believed it was going to save her life, and who Charlotte hated herself for resenting. In the end it had been Sadie who had convinced her to go, who had told her playing a role could keep her safe, and who urged her not to judge her brother too harshly. 

Once she’d been laced in, Sukey approached with her panniers, one of a set of four she wore in varying shapes and sizes dependent upon what was to be layered on top of it. They were her smallest ones, but Charlotte turned her head sideways and gave Sukey such a pathetic look that the older girl sighed, dropped the panniers, and snatched up the hem of her robe anglaise, looking directly at Charlotte, holding her attention with her deep brown eyes. 

“If you get one smudge of dirt on this hem,” 

Charlotte, excited at the thought of being unencumbered, didn’t bother to listen to the rest and instead wiggled in place and wriggled herself into her own second petticoat, made to match the rest of her dress and the stomacher that went with it. The crisp, muffled sounds of fabric over her head and the bright peach tint that surrounded her as she stuck her head through the bottom of the bell shaped garment made Charlotte wish she could remain underneath it and hide for a bit longer. Instead, she rustled it down past her shoulders and fastened one side of her waist while Sukey fastened the other and brought the silk down around her legs, un-tucking it where it had become entangled in the petticoats.  Sukey held her arms open with the top robe of her dress in her hands, behind Charlotte, who dutifully put each of her arms through their respective sleeves.  Sukey fastened her stomacher in the center while Charlotte held the robe closed, securing both sides to the center garment. Then she made sure the pleats fell the way they were supposed to.  Charlotte turned and looked over in the mirror, unused to one at this height and angle, poking her more than ample chest out and making a face at Sukey “I look like I belong at the prow of a ship.”

Sukey chuckled. “Mmmhmm.  That’s why you’re wearing a fichu.”  Sukey came around and draped the kerchief style accessory over Charlotte’s shoulders, crossing one tail over another across her chest before tying it in a bow at her back. 

“Whatchu want for breakfast?” Sukey asked, checking her over once more.

“Oh, please don’t trouble with any breakfast.  I want to see the water.”  Charlotte said, staying very still. 

Sukey rolled her eyes “I told you if you get o-“

“One smudge of dirt on this hem, I know.” Charlotte said.  She smiled at Sukey in the mirror.  “I won’t.”

“All right,” Sukey said, trying not to smile back.  “Let me fix your hair.” 

 

Once Charlotte had allowed Sukey to secure her hair in a pile high on her head, and a bergere hat on top of that pile, pinned carefully in place and tied under her hair at the back of her neck, she was allowed to leave, and she burst out the back door of her aunt’s house with such a flourish that she didn’t expect not to be shouted after. Dashing down the steps quickly in her walking slippers, she turned left to walk through the shadow cast by the house as she made her way towards Long Island Sound.  The house was surrounded on three sides by water, a small jetty accessible only by the short drive from the road that brought one directly to the coast.  At the front of the house, a half circle driveway gave way to the rest of the rolling hill on which the home sat, and the ocean, though visible from the top of the great hill that held the house, had to be accessed by going down a slightly steep embankment where a little dock stood at the edge of the water.

Free of the burden of wearing a dress heavy with panniers, Charlotte picked up the corner of her dress with her free hand and ran energetically towards the water, stopping only when her stays mandated it so that she could breathe.  A massive oak tree stood not fifty yards from the dock, and as she caught her breath she looked up at it, and reminded herself to ask her aunt, and Phillip, whose help she would need, if they could put up a swing.  Difficult enough as it was for her to look around at the land surrounding her and consider it her new, if temporary home, she could not ignore the beauty and quiet peacefulness that characterized her aunt’s property.  And from this dock, come summer, perhaps she’d be able to indulge her secret pastime: swimming. Sadie and Sukey knew she continued to swim long after it was deemed appropriate for a young girl to continue doing so.  They sewed her strong chemises she could swim in, confident that if she co-operated and told them every time she planned to swim, at least they could watch over her while she was in the pond, or the river, and she’d be fine.  Charlotte hoped they’d be as open to allowing her to swim in the sound. But for now, she’d enjoy the trees, and the sun, and the pleasant breezes off the ocean.  She gingerly placed herself down onto the blanket Sukey had given her for just this purpose, and sat in the shade of the tree, looking out on the water.  She tipped her head up to the sky, sunlight catching on her face in places covered neither by leaves nor by the brim of her hat, and she closed her eyes.  She was there with her book and her thoughts but for a small break for lunch with her aunt until Sukey called to her from the top of the hill, shading her eyes as she made her way down the embankment and scanned back and forth for her charge. Wanting not to disappoint, especially since Sukey had been so nice to her that morning, Charlotte leapt up quickly and gathered her things, meeting her.  Together the two walked side by side in through the back prep kitchen, where dinner preparations were already beginning, up to Charlotte’s bedroom to change her clothes once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Abraham Woodhull paced impatiently in his kitchen, waiting for his father to arrive.  Mary spoke quietly to Sprout who was seated on their kitchen table. They were dressed completely in their traveling cloaks, and they would carry a blanket with them to keep Mary and Sprout warm in the back of the carriage.  Becoming slightly agitated, Abraham moved to the window and pulled the curtain back, glancing off into the distance to see if he could make out a carriage on the approach.  He had stifled the fire in the hearth twenty minutes before in anticipation of his father’s arrival, and their subsequent departure.  Thankfully, the nights had not grown cold enough to necessitate a constant fire, and they remained comfortable in their waiting. Despite that fact, Abe was irritated by the draft he felt coming into the house, vexed as only situations involving his father could vex him. 

At least aunt Catharine would be their host this evening.  She had a habit of protecting her young nieces and nephews, being as she was without children of her own to protect, and free to assign her attentions to other subjects.  She had stood between Abe and his father’s chastisement on more occasions than he’d care to admit to himself, or care to remember, and suspected that there were plenty of occasions on which she had done so which he would never learn about. Aunt Catharine could certainly be a powerful ally.  Charlotte was fortunate. Charlotte was her favorite. Since the death of Charlotte’s grandmother, aunt Catharine’s only sister Cornelia, for whom Charlotte’s middle name was chosen, aunt Catharine had functioned as surrogate grandmother to the little girl now old enough to be considered a woman.  For that reason, it had not surprised Abraham in the least when his father told him that Charlotte was coming to Setauket to stay.

He had heard his father’s stern admonishments of her elder brothers when it was learned that three of them had joined up with the 12th Virginia, leaving their eldest to run their six thousand acre farm by himself.  Charlotte’s subsequent departure had given Richard Woodhull the impression that his dear, faultless niece had “escaped” the belly of traitorous rebellion, choosing instead to seek repose in a colony protected by its proximity to the crown’s headquarters in the colonies.  Abraham thought it to Charlotte’s credit that his father could still go on believing such a thing.  He hoped, and had no reason not to expect she could make everyone else believe it as well. But he himself had occasion to speak candidly, and privately, with his cousin and knew her to be a staunch patriot, long of the opinion that the colonies were capable of, and entitled to, create and run their own government.  During her visit four years ago, they had the opportunity to exchange views on such matters, and Abraham doubted very much that anyone as stalwart of belief as Charlotte had been could have changed her opinion very much since then. He agreed with his father on one subject: the probable genesis of her sentiments.  Before three of them departed for the 12th Virginia, two of her brothers had attended New College in Boston, the cradle of Patriotism in the colonies. It was there her father had been born, and for that place they departed, forgoing the opportunity to continue in their eldest brother’s footsteps at the College of William and Mary in Virginia. He was certain they had brought back with them sentiments which they shared with their little sister.  Now, however, she was alone, much the way Abraham felt, himself, with all his allies and those who held his secrets disconnected from him.  He supposed, however, that being attended by Sukey and Sadie certainly helped.  He doubted there was anyone on earth who knew him as well as Sukey and Sadie knew Charlotte. The rattling sound of the carriage wheels outside their home roused Abe from his pensive musing, and he indicated to Mary and Sprout that they should meet his father outside.

Mary had asked him several times to describe Charlotte.  “Polished, bright, elegant, and witty” were the words he had used.  Under his breath he had added, “Stubborn, willful, cunning, and shrewd.” He didn’t share her brother Edward’s frequently repeated, cheeky admonishment “the kind only the right husband will tame.”  Frustrated, however, by the inadequacy of his description, he later told Mary “she’s a lot like Aunt Catharine,” which his wife seemed to accept.  Now, traveling beside his father in their carriage, he listened to the pleasant chatter of his wife and his father, checking back every so often to be sure that Mary and Sprout were comfortable.  The last time he had seen Aunt Catharine he had brought her some cabbage, which she purchased, despite, Abraham thought suspiciously, the fact that it was  known that she herself did not prefer cabbage, and the fact that there seemed to be no one for her to entertain or feed them to.  At that time, she had frankly told him she would welcome the opportunity to speak with him candidly if ever he wished.  He had stood in her dining room as she counted out currency, a floodgate between his pursed lips which he hadn’t dared to open.  Instead he had smiled and nodded and accepted the money, saying nothing.  But she reminded him of her invitation to speak as she walked him to her front door, his horse and wagon waiting in her driveway.  He wondered how long he would last before the war found him pounding on her door asking questions instead of peddling cabbage.  He sat quietly in the carriage, passing by homes with glowing lights and quiet, dark, pastoral fields.  Soon they reached the turnoff, heading into the dark cavern of tremendous oak trees lining the drive up to the house. 

Charlotte sat in the living room in one of the two high backed armchairs beside the hearth, opposite her great aunt, trying not to shift too much in her dress, a pretty evening gown in the robe anglaise style, yards upon yards of dark turquoise silk, nearly blue in it’s depth, accompanied by a lovely, accented stomacher, ruffled accent silks bordering her three quarter sleeves, and trimming her entire neckline of her top robe, running up one side and down the other, from floor to floor. Small pink silk roses decorated the stomacher, and added accent to her sleeves and other parts of the dress. Her hair was piled high on her head, half in rolled curls puffed up to create volume, the other half allowed to drape across her shoulders in luxuriantly tumbling curls.  When the carriage rolled up, she and Catharine rose and exited to their front porch, waiting respectfully at the top of the stairs for their guests to shuffle out.  Catharine’s footman came quickly to Richard’s aid, taking control of the horse and reins, as Abe helped Mary and Sprout from the carriage.  Aunt Catharine was greeted by those who knew her, and Mary presented to Charlotte, who descended the stairs gracefully in a plume of fabric and embraced her cousin’s wife gently, careful of Sprout who sat in her arms looking puzzled.  She was introduced to the little boy, who she fussed over the required amount, and as Mary made her way inside Charlotte turned to Abe and smiled the mischievous grin that only someone sharing a secret with another might share. “Hello, Abraham.”

Abe smiled a shy smile in return, nodding. “Charlotte.”  A secret expression of mutual self-containment passed between the two, and was gone before Richard Woodhull came around to greet his niece and his hostess.

When dinner had nearly concluded, Abraham elected to take a walk on the grounds instead of entering into all out war with his father at Catharine’s table.  Promising to return in time for dessert, he excused himself in the midst of a discussion of seizing properties of known patriots, and strode through the hallway to the back entrance of the house, which he used to make his escape.  Unencumbered by the vocal disagreements of another seated at the table, Richard continued to pontificate until Catharine could smell the brewing coffee and tea which signaled dessert’s preparation, and turned quickly to Charlotte when Richard stopped speaking, staring directly at her and instructing her “Charlotte, go and fetch Abraham from his walk.” 

Only too happy to have been temporarily liberated, Charlotte took the same path Abraham had taken, ducking into the kitchen first to find Sukey and ask her for walking slippers to change into so she wouldn’t have to wear her Louis heels. Standing, she lifted her feet blindly and allowed Sukey to change her shoes, something she couldn’t do on her own in her substantial panniers.  Then she hurried out the back door and down the steps, hoping to start at her new favorite place of repose, the enormous oak tree just up the hill from the dock. She saw the thin silhouette of a man standing beside it, and thanked God she’d saved time and found him early so they could speak briefly before they had to return.  Though the swish-swish rustle-rustle of the fabric that encased her made enough noise on it’s own, out of courtesy she called quietly to Abraham, unlikely to hear anything outside his own reverie, given his distraction. She didn’t wish to frighten someone she suspected was already far more upset than he had presented himself to be. Abe turned his head and seemed to smile in the dark, shadowed light, turning in Charlotte’s direction. He had been looking at the sound, she noted. 

“Time for me to come in then, I take it?” Abe asked.

“We have time. I can claim I couldn’t find you.” Charlotte said. Abe nodded, relieved that she seemed to be the same girl he remembered, and she watched his shoulders as they seemed to drop a bit. 

He leaned back against the tree, and she peered out on the sound as well.  After a few moments of silence, she sighed, trying to shrug off all she was feeling and thinking. 

“It’s worse here,”  She said. “Than I imagined. These lobsterbacks, crawling on the land like mites.  And seemingly no resistance! Everyone like schoolchildren, waiting to be whipped and punished.”

Abe allowed himself to ask what he’d been wondering since it was announced she was arriving. “Why did you come?”

“William.” Charlotte said. “Our numbers at home are much depleted. He wanted me out of harm’s way, and he thinks I’m best hidden in plain sight.” 

“So you’re still…” Abe began.

“Abraham, I’ve been a Patriot since I was eight years old.  It’s you I wonder about.”

Abraham sat in the quiet, pregnant silence.  What could he say? She knew Caleb and Anna from the visit she had made four years before.   Ben had been gone at Yale, but she would know of him if Abe made mention.

“You play your part quite well,” Abe said.

“I have to.” Charlotte shrugged. She chalked her survival up not to her own skill, but to her attention to detail and consistency. “I will play whatever role I have to in order to ensure our freedom...and our survival.”  She was completely relieved to be able to share this with another person, alone and powerless as she felt in Setauket.

Abraham turned to her, and the look of intensity on his face suggested to Charlotte that he was about to unburden himself, though with much apprehension and hesitation. He had considered this moment, when she might make herself available to their cause, just as he had considered approaching Charlotte for help in a time of crisis.  But he had not considered that it would happen so soon.

“If I share with you a secret, can you protect it and guard it with everything you’re capable of?” Abraham asked, his face only inches from Charlotte’s.

Charlotte grinned. “Of course. You’ve always enjoyed my confidence.”

“Can you be observant, and write letters, messages, about what you’ve seen and what you hear?” He asked.  The discussion of Charlotte and Catharine's forthcoming social engagements with key officers had not been lost on Abraham.

Charlotte nodded. “Of course.  You know, William may have sent me away, but it was I who chose the place.  An advantageous place.”

Abraham nodded. “Tomorrow night, you must come here, to this tree.  We’ll meet on the dock.”  

“When?” She asked.

“Late.” He replied.  “Midnight.” 

Charlotte nodded. Turning back towards the house, Charlotte suggested they should probably return, and the two hustled across the grassy hill in the darkness, rebellious blood pumping through their veins, excitement and fear surging through their hearts. 


	4. Chapter 4

Charlotte carefully lifted an enormous pastry to her mouth and bit, squeezing cream out of the puff, where it plopped, dangerously close to the edge, onto the plate she held under her chin.  She looked up at Sukey from the comfort of the floor and the giant cushion on which she sat, raising her eyebrows as though to suggest  _“See?  It fell on the plate.”_ Then she looked down at her lap, where a heavy silk napkin was strategically spread, further indicating that her garments remained protected.

Sukey sighed, turning back to her embroidery, a beautiful pattern she had created by hand as she worked, an assortment of colorful flowers on a pair of pockets she had made for Charlotte.  She looked up at the clock on the mantle again.  Nearly 10:30.  Another hour and a half to wait, but at least Charlotte would be on her way and then Sukey could retire. She wouldn’t; she would wait for her charge until she returned from the dock, and this suspicious meeting with her shifty cousin. Abraham.  Sukey wondered what was wrong with that boy. He always seemed ready to crawl out of his own skin.  She hoped this meeting wouldn’t spell trouble for Charlotte. 

It was growing late, especially for someone who rose near dawn, and Sukey was tired.  She appreciated the fact that Charlotte had already attempted to dismiss her several times, only to discover that Sukey would wait up in any case, so Charlotte invited Sukey to sit up with her, which she had.  Charlotte was seated happily on a large circular cushion laid out on the rug, a book beside her, taking a brief break to enjoy leftover desserts. Sukey had allowed her to take off her top robe and stomacher off, to breathe a little in only her chemise, stays, and petticoats.  Her topmost petticoat, displayed through the front opening of the robe, and made to match, lay beside it flat on her bed where it couldn’t wrinkle.   Charlotte had been at dinner with Great Aunt Catharine most of the evening, though by now Charlotte’s hostess had long since retired until morning. Charlotte rose and went around to the little vanity where Sukey had placed one of her jewelry boxes. She searched around for her most prized necklace, slightly less ornate and decorative than some of the chokers and necklaces she possessed.  It was her favorite, a tiny, delicate golden anchor, which she sometimes wore on a chain of fine gold, though most often on a thin ribbon chosen to match her dress. She fussed around through an open box on the top of her dresser, looking through the various cuttings of ribbon to find the one she was looking for.  She found it.  A thin, muted nautical blue silk ribbon which she threaded onto her anchor’s tiny golden loop. She tied it carefully around her neck and shuffled through some of her trunks, still gradually being unpacked and organized, looking for some of her preferred personal effects. She found her treasured scarf, and wound it around her shoulders, standing in front of the mirror at her vanity, running her fingers over the embroidered shapes she had lovingly created with threads in the fabric.  A gentle breeze blew through one of her open windows, and she shrugged the scarf off, folding it in half and placing it in front of her pillow on her bed for safe keeping. Then she returned to her cushion to finish her dessert.

At quarter to midnight, Charlotte, dressed fully in her silk gown patterned with flowers, and covered by a Monaco blue woolen capelet, made her way as quietly as possible out the door and down the hill towards the dock.  From the top of the hill, at the corner of the back raised veranda, Sukey kept watch for Charlotte, listening so she could hear any potential sounds of distress or something gone awry.  

Charlotte could feel the settling dew as it slowly dampened her hem and stockings. She slinked through the uneven grass in the darkness, the moon creating fascinating patterns on the hillside as it cast through the nearly naked tree branches.  Despite the fact she had expectations of who she would meet, Charlotte was nervous.  Had she not been by the sea, she likely would not have been as composed. She was soothed by the sound of the rolling of the waves and the sharp pleasantness in the salty breeze of the ocean.  Turning back every few steps to cast her eyes towards the house, Charlotte made her way to the oak tree. From her high vantage point, she could see the dock, empty.  Carefully, she picked her way down the steep embankment in the dark.  Alone for the time being, she chose to sit herself carefully on top of one of the wooden posts holding the dock in place, conveniently high enough for her to gently lower herself onto the rounded top without tipping herself over into the water.  A crashing sound, and the cracking of leaves and branches could be heard down the embankment, and she saw a thin figure making his way along the wooded part of the beach which had not been cleared. 

Charlotte whispered “Abraham!” sharply, and he whistled in reply, picking his way over rocks and stones as he came up to the dock.  He came to the place where the dock met the grass and the sand and climbed atop, nodding at Charlotte and walking down the dock to take a seat on the post opposite her. 

She noticed Abraham fidgeting a bit with his hands as he waited, gazing skyward with a worried expression marring his face.  Charlotte pressed gently against the left side of her capelet with her right hand, listening for the reassuring crackle of the parchment inside. Once she lifted her hand away, reassured, she noticed, looking up, the shape of a small rowboat coming across the sound. She glanced over at Abe, who was focused on the very same.  He seemed not to be concerned, only reactive.  As the small craft approached, the lapping of the water on the oars could be heard, and a soft whistling, carried over on the wind.  Abe stood up, heading to the edge of the dock to cup his hands around his mouth and whistle in return.  Charlotte stood back in the shadow of the trees hanging over the dock in the tiny inlet, waiting respectfully to be reintroduced. She fiddled with her hair self consciously, left down below her ears, the remaining portion still pinned to her head. Sukey had let her take most of the heavy bulk off her head.  She heard the muffled voices of the two boys, Abe’s quiet and cautious, Caleb’s as boisterous as she remembered.  Caleb climbed the ladder up to the surface of the dock, and the two approached Charlotte.

“Charlotte,” Abe began.  “I trust that you remember my friend, Caleb Brewster.” 

Charlotte smiled, stepping forward. 

“Well, hello little troublemaker. I see you’re lovely as ever,” Caleb said. 

Charlotte laughed. At the conclusion of her last visit to Setauket she had orchestrated a last goodbye meeting in the woods, a midnight rendezvous between herself, Anna, Caleb, and Abraham, where they drank stolen liquor and sat out under the stars talking of all manner of things before they had to sneak back.  They had all nearly been caught, sneaking back to their respective homes in the hours near daylight.  She’d been known as troublemaker ever since. 

“Hello, Caleb,” she said, grinning.

“So this is the new agent you’ve brought me, Woody?”  Caleb asked. 

Abraham nodded. “Show him your papers, if you would,” he said to Charlotte.

Charlotte reached inside her capelet and removed her passes, handing them over to Caleb. He perused the sheets of heavy paper, and looked back up at her. 

“These allow you passage anywhere in the colonies.”  He said.  He nodded, satisfied if not a little impressed, then looked up at her.

“I remember you being sympathetic to the cause.” He said.  “I trust your sentiments haven’t changed?” 

“They have not. If anything, they have intensified. My eldest brother remains at home, but my three remaining elder brothers all serve with the 12th Virginia.  My brother is Captain Theodore Adams.”  She hoped to illustrate with this detail that she while she was an exception as a relative of Abraham’s who would be working against the crown, in her own immediate family she was very much in line with the beliefs of her relatives, and had come by her patriotism in an honest manner of cultivation. 

“Charlotte will be dining with officers in the coming weeks, and I believe it was mentioned would be traveling to York City as well.”   Abraham mentioned.

Charlotte nodded. “Frequently, I imagine. Aunt Catharine likes the opera, and the theatre, and now that I’m here as a kind of companion, I will be attending events with her wherever they might occur.  I also received a letter from a childhood friend who moved from Virginia to New Jersey, and had heard I was coming to live in Long Island. It was waiting for me here when I arrived, and I now have an open invitation to visit her whenever I like. So I could travel to New Jersey on urgent matters with relative plausibility.”  Charlotte had been happy to hear from her friend Martha White, who was staying with cousins as she would soon be marrying the son of a magistrate. "I believe she resides in a place called Morristown."

Caleb nodded, impressed. 

Abe introduced a concern.  “I’d like to avoid having Charlotte make contact too frequently, if it can be helped. She’ll be safer, I think, and you, Caleb, if most of your communication can be dropped and not delivered in person.”

Charlotte spoke up “but I would be quite willing to make contact if I felt it necessary to pass along key information.” 

Both boys stared at her for a moment, and then nodded.  

Caleb ran his thumb and first two fingers along his beard, scratching a bit at his chin.

“Well, you know, Abe, I’m just the first test…but how would you intend to deliver any information that might be delivered?”

Abraham was about to explain that he and Charlotte had not had much occasion to discuss exactly how the intelligence would be dropped, when he realized his cousin was answering.

“I had opportunity to explore the grounds last afternoon.  There’s an old anchor in the little captain’s cabin on the east side of the hill, an old ship’s bell as well.  They’ve been using it for storage.  I’ll hang the bell on the end of the dock if I’m leaving intelligence, I’ll hang the anchor if I need to make contact.  If I leave a letter, I will tuck it inside the deep hole in the oak tree, underneath bark and debris.”

Both boys were staring at Charlotte again, and she pursed her lips, realizing she probably had spoken far too much. 

Caleb nodded. “I’ll take this to the handler,” he said to Abraham. 

He looked at Charlotte again.  “I’m sure he’ll be….” he paused, smiling devilishly at her  “extremely pleased.” 

Caleb recalled Charlotte as a cute, plucky girl from her visit when they were younger, but she’d grown into a splendidly attractive and unconsciously graceful young creature, and he was already completely convinced that his best friend was going to trip over his own feet falling in love with her.  He found the notion both refreshing and amusing.  

“Well, I must be off then,” Caleb said, turning to descend the ladder.

He waved to Charlotte, who called quietly “Goodbye, Caleb,” and just as soon as he had arrived, he had pushed off, was rowing away, and was gone. 

Charlotte and Abraham turned to one another and smiled. 

Charlotte reached out and patted Abe on his arm. “You’re doing a very noble thing,” she said.

“I pray that I am,” he said.

“You are,” she replied. 

Being without a sister, and alone now without Thomas, Charlotte could easily see herself adopting Abe as another brother.  Abe turned and jerked his head up to the house.

“You’d better go before someone sees you,” he said.

She nodded. “You as well.”

Abraham fixed his cocked hat on his head, nodding.  “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Charlotte whispered.  She headed up the hill towards the house, holding her dress away from the damp grass as much as she could.  Abe watched until he could no longer see her climbing the hill towards the estate, and stepped onto the beach, running along the beach before disappearing into the woods.

When finally Charlotte was tucked safely into her bed, as the moonlight spilled through the curtains she had insisted should remain open, she lay awake, thinking, studying the shadows etched across the floor.  The lacy frills of her nightgown’s cuffs felt scratchy on her cheek as she fiddled with the anchor around her neck.  It was only some time later that she finally fell into a restless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Sukey rounded the top of the stairs on the servants’ staircase, cautiously making her way along the hallway to Charlotte’s bedroom.  Her charge waited in her darkened chamber, seated quietly in a high backed chair. Sukey cracked the door slightly and Charlotte rose halfway to check the doorway, rising with as little sound as possible when Sukey beckoned her from the threshold.  The two hustled along the corridor in the darkness. Sukey lead Charlotte back to the concealed door, which resembled the rest of the wood paneling, opening it via the seam in the wall, ushering Charlotte to the top of the stairs of the servants’ staircase, where she pulled the door shut. 

She took Charlotte’s wrist gently, for a moment, grasping with a gentle squeeze that told her to wait.  Then she pulled a candle stub and a match from the pocket beneath her petticoat, striking it on the rough plaster in the windowless staircase, a small glow beginning to emanate from the wick.  As she held the candle aloft from above her young mistress’ head, it’s golden light helped Charlotte to see the curve and bend of the staircase as they descended.  Charlotte, unable to see her own feet in the blue silk gown she’d chosen for tonight’s meeting, a true match to the deep color that characterized most of the continental uniforms, was thankful for each step that didn’t send her hurtling down the staircase in a heap of silk and incompetence. 

Once she found purchase on the last step, she nearly hopped with excitement onto the prep kitchen floor below. Sukey followed her as the two left the prep kitchen and swung open the heavy mahogany door that lead out of the kitchen and into the back hallway.  With a quick glance in all directions, Charlotte hurried to the back entrance leading to the raised stone porch.  She slid the lock aside and in a flourish of fabric, squeezed through the doorway with Sukey darting out behind her. 

Out in the chilly autumn air, Charlotte turned back and grinned at Sukey in the sparse moonlight.  Sukey waved her off with the fingers of her right hand, flipping them up and down with the back of her hand facing upwards in a shooing gesture. Charlotte smiled and watched Sukey lift herself up onto the heavy stone crest of the bolstered railing to wait for her return.  As she descended the stairs and swung back around to the front of the house, she gave Sukey a nod, and hurried down the embankment to the dock. 

Abraham’s letter the day before describing “a varied list of flora and fauna in Setauket,” which was in fact correspondence for another purpose only capitalizing on a conversation surrounding nature which they’d had at dinner, had told Charlotte that not only were there at least six different type of oak trees on Long Island, but also that they would be meeting with the handler the following night. 

The alternating sounds of whipping and whispering of fabric as Charlotte descended the hill alerted Abe, hidden on the far side of the big oak tree, to her approach.  He appeared in as nonthreatening a manner as possible so he wouldn’t startle her, making himself visible in silhouette very deliberately.

“Hello,” Charlotte whispered.  

Abraham nodded with a warm smile at her. He jerked his head discreetly and indicated to Charlotte that she should turn her attentions to the sound, and a small boat making it’s way across the bay.  In the shaded cover of the tree, they watched as it was rowed gradually towards them.  When the small craft had drawn nearer, Abraham put out his arm in a gracious gesture to allow Charlotte to take hold of it and accompany him down the hill. She walked hesitantly down the embankment in her slippers, her panniers bumping against her legs as the coastal wind whipped her Robe à la Française around her.  A billowing yet fitted blue over robe, coupled with a beautifully ornamented buff brocade top petticoat and stomacher to match were her “uniform” this evening.  She doubted she’d wear this evening piece for anything other than a meeting of this type, reminiscent as it was of the continental army uniform. Heavy silk ornamentation adorned the cuffs of her three quarter sleeves, the deep, revealing squared neck of her robe and stomacher, and the hem and inside trimmings of her robe. Her hair had been curled with a hair iron warmed on the fire, and put up on her head, but Sukey had brushed it out after their dinner with the Williams family that evening, and now it lay in smooth, voluminous waves down her shoulders, held in place only by a simple blue ribbon headband.  Her anchor hung around her neck by a matching ribbon, but no other jewelry nor finery decorated the young patriot.  In a deep brown wool cape, she wondered if perhaps she was overdressed, but assumed it was far too late to be worrying about that now.  

Abe and Charlotte made their way across the wooden planks that made up the dock and waited, side by side, halfway down, while the tiny craft made its way closer to the shore.  It seemed that there were three figures inside the little rowboat, a decidedly greater number than both Abe and Charlotte expected, and probably a greater number than the boat was intended for when it was built. Charlotte could discern the differences between the three shapes, but could make out none of their features. The moon had risen high, but was barely a sliver, it’s light nearly ineffectual under the cover of the trees if one intended to see any farther than ten feet in front of them. They could hear quiet voices as the boat approached, which grew louder as the little craft rocked back and forth.

Soon the craft with the three figures was bobbing awkwardly alongside the dock, and Charlotte and Abraham, who was himself quite alarmed, could hear intermittent shouting and cursing as the three jockeyed for stability and balance in the rowboat.  The wind was blowing gently enough, but some of the sounds of their conversation were obscured, though other words were spoken quiet forcefully and could be heard quite clearly. 

“You’re the only person I know who insists on standing in a boat while it’s still sailin’!  Ya shite!”

“There’s no call for that kind of language, Caleb, we’re to be in mixed compan-“

“Sit down, you’re tipping me in!”

 “Daft bastard!” 

Abe turned to his left to see Charlotte standing with her hand to her mouth in the most delicate fashion possible, trying to stifle outright laughter.  The corners of her mouth were turned up in a tight smile, and her body shook as she giggled silently. It was refreshing and oddly comforting to hear the voices of young men squabbling and cursing at one another. She missed her brothers, and was happy this was a time to laugh instead of cry. 

“Don’t pull the–

“Well stop swaying, then!”

With a jarring –thunk!-  The boat slammed against the dock, knocking the hull on something below with a sickening crack, and sending a reverberation up the posts that both Charlotte and Abe felt keenly in the bottoms of their feet. They were clearly struggling below.

 “Abe!” Caleb called.  “Help me tie the boat, will ya?” 

Abe sprung into action and grabbed for a rope that was tossed up onto the top of the deck. 

“Benny boy, I swear if you don’t get your arse up that ladder,” she heard Caleb begin. 

“You’re _moving_ too much!  Caleb, I thought you were a proper boatman!”

 

Charlotte decided she should probably intervene. She weighed her options. She was, in all likelihood, the best swimmer out of all five of them.  She swam as often as she was allowed and as long as it was warm enough for to do so. Always in secret. Always with Sukey and Sadie standing watch.  Usually she swam in the cool, clear, brackish river by her house, or in the nearby pond. Judging by both her own hours of practice and the relative mutual disbelief in the capabilities of their compatriots in seemingly everything nautical being voiced by those below the dock, Charlotte assumed she should at least attempt to offer some assistance. It was cold enough this time of year that if someone fell into the sound, there would be no solution other than for them to be brought to the house and tended to, or risk hypothermia. That would be a disaster. It would both require harboring of a rebel in a primarily loyalist region, and would likely ruin their cover. No, they couldn’t risk drawing attention to themselves. Charlotte unfastened her cape and folded it in half, draping it over one of the dock posts.  Then she went to where the ladder was mounted. She couldn’t see much, in the dark and shadow of the dock and the trees, and while her stays were snug and not suffocating, she still could not bend very far over.  So she crouched as gracefully as she possibly could, held onto the end cap of the railing beside her for balance, and reached her hand down into the darkness, towards the young man below. 

 

Captain Benjamin Tallmadge was quite finished with the antics of both Caleb Brewster and “Aaron McKenna.” Glancing upward from his purchase on the ladder, he could see the shadows of a thin hand extended over the side of the dock.  He assumed the hand belonged to Abraham, and grasped onto it, not noticing how soft it was. He used it not for support but for balance, grasping the opposite railing with his other arm as he climbed with powerful legs.  Once he managed to climb high enough, nearly to the top, he glanced upwards in his climb and locked gaze with the largest brown eyes on the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. He paused for a moment, taken aback, his mouth slightly parted.  Charlotte cast her gaze downwards, in deference, towards the abundance of pooled fabric around her, hair falling into her face.  She attempted to hide her bashfulness and alarm when she noticed that Captain Tallmadge was in fact one of the more handsome men she’d ever laid eyes upon.

  As he climbed the remainder of the way, hurrying up the ladder to a flat surface so he could regain his composure and his dignity, Ben retained his hold on Charlotte’s hand, with no apparent use for it other than the pleasure of it’s company. She could feel a kind of current running between the two, one she’d have been incompetent to explain.  

As Ben climbed the last few rungs of the ladder, he gently lifted her with him, brining her to stand on her two feet as his officer’s boots found purchase on the dock.  She prayed for grace and femininity as she raised herself up, trying not to put weight on him.  Then she could look at him.  And she did, while he looked at her.  His soft lips, his strong nose, his handsome jaw, his intense, hooded eyes.  And the pleasant, reassuring warmth that seemed to exist between them as though it had all along.  They were quite close together, inches from being pressed against one another on multiple points of contact.  Neither seemed to notice that they should perhaps make their distance more appropriate. Neither seemed to have their wits about them. 

Abraham had secured the boat to one of the dock posts, and now was only waiting for the remaining two guests to ascend. He glanced over and saw that Ben and Charlotte were simply standing there, staring at one another. He sighed, and came around behind Charlotte where Ben, who had ignored him until now, was forced to acknowledge him, gently dropping Charlotte’s hand.

“Captain Benjamin Tallmadge, may I present my cousin, Miss Charlotte Cornelia Adams.”  Abraham said sedately. 

Charlotte took a step back when Abraham approached and she had noticed the error. 

Ben looked at Charlotte’s pretty, round face once again. How open, how honest everything about her seemed.  He could read everything on her face, like a spy’s coded map, her naked expressions, every shadow cast by the moon and each faint line, the soft porcelain skin and all its lovely features mesmerizing him. Trembling lips, the gentle whipping of her hair in the ocean breeze, the rise and fall of her generous chest beneath her stomacher, and the incessant submissive blinking she couldn’t seem to help tugged at something deep below the pit of his stomach, and he tucked that feeling away as fervently as possible while she still stood before him.

The colors of her gown had not been lost on him, and he scanned over her figure as slowly as he dared.

“Charlotte,” he whispered, softly, as though he wanted to feel the name on his lips, in his mouth.  He suddenly realized his error and shook his head dismissively; glad she was probably the only one to hear.  He clicked his heels together and bowed with all the propriety and gentility of a proper officer and gentleman.  “Miss Adams,” he said.

Charlotte, as Sukey had taught her, placed her right hand in a posed fashion in front of her dress, with elegantly crooked fingers, and gracefully extended her left hand out by her side, fingers artfully posed .  Then she lowered into curtsey, her petticoats and robe pooling beneath her in a dark wave.  When she was lowest in her dip, she looked up at Ben with big, open eyes, and, dare he assume, a bit of flirtation, and said only “Captain,” the perfect picture of acquiescence.

Ben couldn’t help but smile warmly at her, flushing a little bit and looking away in disbelief.  Charlotte smiled in return, prompting an eye roll and another wave of nerves to settle upon Abraham. Caleb’s voice bellowed from behind Ben, where he was waiting on the ladder. 

“If you move your college boy arse, we can _all_ stand on the dock.” He barked. 

Ben moved, reluctantly, and Charlotte backed up to give everyone room. 

This time Charlotte sniffed with laughter, attempting to stifle it, but instead broke into a smile and a short giggle. It only endeared her to him more. Ben loved Caleb as a brother, and while he was often unwilling to laugh even at those jokes of Caleb’s which were truly funny for purposes of maintaining an officer’s seriousness, he truly found his friend amusing and was glad Charlotte had the sense of humor to feel the same.  He assumed having four brothers had most likely shaped her sense of humor.  

He smiled, but what he said was

“I apologize for my officers.  While talented men, they often lack the most basic social graces.  Especially this one,” he said, gesturing towards Caleb who grinned and moved around Ben to stand on his other side. 

“Caleb?”  Charlotte asked, smiling.  “Oh, he’ll all right.” 

She nodded at Caleb who had produced an apple from his coat pocket and was now cutting it with a knife.  He nodded to Charlotte with a smile and looked at Ben with a sliver of apple in his hand and raised it to him in smug, gloating greeting. Ben cast him a dark look. A third figure rose from beneath the dock, a slighter looking young man. 

“This is, uh, Second Leiutenant Aaron McKenna,” Ben offered.

The young man bowed awkwardly, and instead of attributing the discomfort with which he performed the activity to another possibility, she simply assumed he was young and inexperienced.  Charlotte lowered herself again gently, nothing like the ceremony with which she curtseyed for Ben, but with respect nonetheless.

Abe shook hands with the young man, returning to Charlotte’s side afterward.

“You are from Virginia?” Ben asked.

Charlotte nodded.  “I am.  Give me liberty, or give me death!” She said enthusiastically, quoting fellow Virginian Patrick Henry.

Ben beamed.  Then he came to his senses and restrained himself.

“Your brothers are soldiers.” He said. 

Charlotte nodded.  “Yes, three of them, one a Captain, all in the 12th Virginia. My remaining brother maintains our farm.” 

“And your social circles?” He asked.

  
“Most advantageous for observation.”  Charlotte said.  “Great Aunt Catharine is rife with invitations.  I trust Caleb mentioned my traveling permissions?”

Ben nodded.  “Caleb also said you will be encountering officers.”   Suddenly, Ben hated this idea.

Charlotte nodded.  “Dining with, most frequently, I’d imagine. Unfortunately I have no experience with poisons.” She said dryly. 

Caleb and Ben both laughed, slight concern and reservation behind Ben’s chuckle.  He hoped she knew how to keep that sentiment, close as it was to his own, to herself.

“Well,” Ben began.  “I certainly wouldn’t want to put a lady in jeopardy, but it seems you’ve established a possible method for leaving letters and meeting agents as information arises that seems quite sound.”

Charlotte nodded.  She pointed to the end of the dock, where a wooden box had been placed. It could have held any number of maritime accessories, but in this case,

“The bell and the anchor are inside that box. I would hang the bell if a message were in that tree with the very large vacant cavern, and the anchor if I want to meet.”

Abraham reiterated his message, “I would like to avoid meetings in favor of drops if possible, in Charlotte’s case.” he said.

Ben nodded “Yes, of course.  Safety and security are our priorities.” 

Ben couldn’t help himself.  Caleb had told him some about her, but he couldn’t have known this detail for certain, and Abraham wouldn’t have mentioned it. But he had to know.

“We of course wouldn’t want to…offend or anger your intended by placing you in any danger,” he tested gently.

“My intended?” Charlotte asked. She looked around, confused.

“You-“ Ben began.  “You don’t have an intended?”  He leaned forward as he asked, asking earnestly, as though they were alone. He would, of course, be teased by Caleb, but he was of the impression that this had been Caleb’s intention all along.

“Unless there has been a change in the last few minutes!” Charlotte said, jovially, meaning to be lighthearted and suggest an intended would be news to her, but when she looked up at him, she knew from the expression on his face that yes, there had been a change. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she shivered slightly, though with tremors of excitement, not in reaction to the temperature.

No one was saying a word, so Charlotte pointed to the box, attempting to fill the silence. 

“In the much the same way as I could when leaving intelligence, Caleb, or, whoever would be arriving, could put up the signals for me, and drop messages in the tree in kind.  The contact could therefore go in both directions.”

Ben nodded, as did Caleb.  They looked about, all seeming to notice how long they’d been in sight.  Ben stepped carefully forward towards Charlotte and said gently

“Miss Adams.  It’s been my….pleasure, to meet you.  You are a welcome addition to our efforts.  We would, if you wouldn’t mind, like to speak with Abraham in private.”

Charlotte nodded, curtseying in a fashion meant to acknowledge them all. 

“It’s been my pleasure to meet you both,” she said, to Ben and Aaron each, receiving polite nods in return.

She scooped up her cape in her hands, smiling at Caleb and Abraham, and turned to go. 

“Do take care of yourself.”  Ben called in her wake, staring after her, unable to look away. Charlotte turned over her shoulder and gave him a brilliant smile.

“Yes, Captain.”  She said.  Then, before she lost her nerve, she hurried quickly up the hill. 

The other three returned to their consort, but Ben was certain he was the reason behind the pause that Charlotte took at the top of the hill, her hair and her dress blowing about her in the wind so she looked like something out of a dream. 

When they were pulling away from the dock, all in tact and (miraculously) dry, Ben happened to glance up at the house and see the light of a small candle glowing in a window that could belong to no one but Charlotte, and which could have been nothing if not intentional. He stared after the light long after he could see it, warmed in his heart by its glow. 


	6. Chapter 6

In the relative warmth of the late fall sun, Sukey was hanging laundry on the line beside the house, while Sadie did the washing a few yards away.  Charlotte had strategically placed herself on a blanket in the shade of a tree, within speaking distance of Sukey. 

“How long until Philip gets back?”  Charlotte called to her.  

Sukey allowed her exasperation to show on her face but did not allow it to rule her response.  She softened her demeanor.

"It was your decision that they sail, Miss Charlotte.  One I agreed with, but you got to give it time.  Phillip got to drive the wagon all the way back, then collect Powhatan, then he got to find a suitable boat manned by someone you trust, and book passage.  They’ll be along in a few weeks or so.” 

Though she was anxious to have her handsome chestnut warmblood gelding in Setauket with her, Charlotte nodded her understanding, and turned back to her book, The Castle of Otranto. She attempted to focus her attention on the pages, but the stronger than usual ocean breeze and her thoughts of her duties to the Culper ring, as well as thoughts of her handler, were occupying her thoughts despite her attempts to evade them.

She had been at Great Aunt Catharine’s home for nearly one full week, and as yet had not had occasion to meet any British officers, but she was not without intelligence to communicate to her fellow patriots.  She had made some observations when she and Sukey had ventured into the small village area of Setauket, and had committed them to her memory.  She rose carefully, book in hand, and bent as carefully as possible to retrieve the blanket she had been sitting on.  She folded it haphazardly, holding it to her chest with the book tucked inside. She went to Sukey, waiting at a distance to tell her she was going upstairs to compose a letter. When Sukey’s face peeked out from around the bed sheet she had just hung, she smiled serenely at Charlotte, and reminded her “you haven’t played your pianoforte today.”

“It’s not _my_ pianoforte,” she said sullenly, not out of complaint over the piano, which was beautiful, but because Sukey was gently reminding her to practice, but could also be not so gentle in her reminder if she wanted. Sukey sighed and put her hands out for Charlotte to give her the book and blanket.

“Go.  One hour.  I still have linens to ring out while Mama washes.  Then I’ll be in to dress you for dinner.  Major Hewlett is coming tonight.  He’s a great fan of your auntie’s.”

Charlotte sighed and suppressed a groan, inciting a warning look from Sukey, who took her blanket and book from her and tipped her head in the direction of the living room inside.

As Charlotte mounted the stairs to the raised porch, Sukey called after her “Open window please.”

Charlotte sighed again and made her way down the short hallway into the ornate living space. She was uncertain whether the open window policy was for Sukey’s enjoyment, or for purposes of ensuring that Charlotte was indeed practicing.  She suspected both.  She carefully unlatched and lifted open the window near the piano, noting the considerable amount of light that still permeated the space despite the growing lateness of the afternoon. She left the candelabras unlit. She pulled up a second window, to enjoy the afternoon breeze, and then sat down at the piano bench. She practiced her warm-up exercises, and then played her favorite parts of several different pieces, with her own variations, for the rest of the hour.

When Sukey came to find her, the sun was starting to set, and she ushered Charlotte upstairs as the house bean to ready itself for dinner guests. 

When Charlotte had expressed interest in what the major was wont to talk about over dinner, the advice her great aunt had given her was “Horses, he does love his horses.”

Charlotte had been puzzled, but was glad she had taken her aunt’s advice once they were well into a pleasant thirty minute conversation on both Charlotte’s horse: her desire for his safe return, her delight at the prospect of being able to ride on Long Island once spring came around, and the Major’s white and chestnut geldings. They returned to the subject often as conversation drifted to relations within the town, commerce, and news from England.  Major Hewlett gently teased Charlotte’s aunt, reminding her he wasn’t at liberty to discuss certain matters, but nonetheless divulging enough information for Charlotte to retain that she considered of interest. 

Eventually, Charlotte was called to the piano at the Major’s request.  When, at her gentle probing to discover what he’d most like to hear, he asked specifically for “something lighthearted” she chose the Mozart piano sonata number five in the key of G.  Turning once or twice during her performance to her audience, she noticed Major Hewlett had closed his eyes, and with a brandy in one hand, was gently directing his other in time with her playing.  Aunt Catharine simply nodded at her approvingly.  The rest of the time she kept her eyes cast down towards her piano, despite her lack of need to see the keys.  She allowed herself to disassociate when she was playing, disappearing into the music, allowing herself to play from memory. It was then, as her nimble fingers moved across the keys, that she allowed herself to conjure, yet again, her memories of Captain Tallmadge.  His face, his gentlemanly mannerisms, his voice.  When she turned from the piano again, finding herself facing a British officer’s uniform, she tried to hide her disappointment. 

 

When they had bade the Major goodnight, and both ladies had been complimented for their hosting and musical talents respectively, as well as for the pleasure of their company, Charlotte followed great aunt Catharine upstairs, and retired to her bedroom while her aunt made her way to her own. 

 

Charlotte fiddled impatiently as Sukey undressed her, helping to disrobe herself as quickly as possible by unhooking, unpinning and unlacing whichever parts of her garments Sukey was not working on.  When finally she had been dressed in a nightgown and full-length silk dressing gown, she relaxed, sitting at her desk beside her fireplace with her paper, inkpot and quill. She looked over at Sukey, who had of yet said nothing, nor had asked her who she was writing to.

In sullen defeat, she realized she’d have to communicate with the rest of the spy ring without disguising her words. She loathed the prospect that she would appear provincial and uneducated to the handsome Yale graduate she couldn’t keep from her thoughts.  Whilst she and her brothers had learned most subjects together during their tutoring as children, they separated while William, Teddy, Nathaniel, and Edward learned Hebrew, Latin and Greek and Charlotte was studied in piano, voice, and elocution.  She had never outgrown her jealousy that they had mastered the additional languages, despite the fact that she wouldn’t trade the experience she had with music and the joy it had brought her for anything.  She spoke French, but it was far from having three of the most ancient languages on earth at her intellectual disposal.  She sat, frustrated, realizing that with no other instruction to allow her to do otherwise, she’d be forced to communicate in English. 

For that reason, she chose to utilize vague nuances, as though she were corresponding with another young lady who knew already of what she spoke.  Nevertheless, she felt she had communicated clearly enough that Caleb and Ben, being of similar mind and objective, (and Aaron and Abraham, if they happened to read the correspondence) would know to what and whom she was referring. This first letter she folded. Then she thought.

She’d been thinking all too often of the Captain since their meeting the night before last. She knew that Abraham’s plan to include her must have come as a surprise to his friends, and hoped that though she was unknown to the Captain, that he might yet trust her.

  She rose, as Sukey looked up from the fireplace where she was adjusting the logs, and went to her bed pillows. Lifting the ones under which she slept, she found her treasured blue silk scarf, which she had kept hidden since she had placed it around her shoulders the night she and Abraham met with Caleb and she was recruited to the ring.  She wrapped it around her shoulders once more, running her fingers over the embroidery she’d done in the silk.  A constellation of white, five pointed stars, in white silken thread, significant only to herself.  Thirteen larger stars represented the capital seats of each of the thirteen colonies, from the north in Concord, New Hampshire, to Atlanta, Georgia in the south. She had needed to compress the design slightly, because her intention when she began was that the scarf function as a map, and as she looked at her handiwork, she saw that she’d succeeded. Anyone with knowledge of the colonial topography would understand what it was the scarf was intending to represent, upon laying it out and examining it.  The smaller stars in the constellation were places of importance for Charlotte. Her home in Virgnia, her aunt’s home here in Setauket, Boston, where her father had come from and where her brothers had gone to college, the seaside estate of her uncle’s in Charleston where she and her brothers had spent several summers, Bermuda, to whence the ship upon which her parents sailed had been bound when it was lost at sea.  She looked with fondness on several of the other stars, places in the colonies where she and her family had accrued fond memories. She laid it out on the desk and ran her delicate fingertips over the stars, each perfectly symmetrical, the result of her labor of love.  Then Charlotte made a decision.  She admitted to herself that her longing was for more than a victory in the colonies. She decided to compose a second letter. Sukey cast her a glance when she noticed her charge choosing another page and dipping her quill once again.  She decided she'd be as direct as propriety allowed.  Had not Captain Tallmadge seemed as charmed with her as she was with him?

 

Dearest Captain Tallmadge,

 I can imagine that it is only with great reservation and out of sincere need that you welcome another to your band of agents.  I wish to extend my gratitude for being allowed to contribute, and to express my great reverence for the mission with which we have been charged.  I have every confidence in your ability to bring this mission to its most successful possible conclusion.  It is my great hope that I, being yet unknown to you, might assuage any concerns that may linger, and demonstrate my loyalty and dedication to our great cause.  It is for this reason you have at present in your possession an item which I treasure immeasurably.  It began as a beautiful silk scarf, a gift from my brothers, but it has become considerably more than that.  The embroidery is my own: created as a secret comfort and constant reference.  The thirteen larger five pointed stars in constellation that traverse the fabric are indicative of the capital cities of each of our colonies.  The smaller stars are each of varied importance to me.  My home in Virginia, this home in Setauket, and Boston, from whence my father's family hails, are all among them.  I have kept it always within my reach, but now its mission is as emissary, to my trusted handler, that he might place trust in me.

With Deepest Dedication and Affection,

Charlotte Cornelia Adams

 

Charlotte blew gently on the ink to allow it to try, and reached inside her desk for a stick of red sealing wax, and her brass seal.  Heating the wax in the light from the taper on her desk, she created a neat melted circle at the letter’s overlapping fold, pressing her seal inside the wax to reveal her personal variation on the Adams “A.”  She did not seal her intelligence in the same way.  With only a red smudge of wax to seal it, it could remain anonymous. This was between herself and the Captain.  Knowing that Caleb would be the only person to collect her letters for now, and since no intelligence had yet been placed in the tree, the likelihood that an another would happen upon her letter with the Captain’s name, and her scarf was quite low. She went to her vanity and selected the perfume that she always wore as her signature scent, and brought it back to the table.  Prepared to infuse the scarf with her scent, she was rescued by Sukey who stood up from where she had been sitting, threading a new ribbon into a set of Charlotte’s stays.

“What you doin’?” She asked Charlotte.

Charlotte looked up innocently, saying nothing.

“You sendin’ that scarf to Cap’n Tallmadge?”  She asked.

Charlotte’s eyes went wide.

“You mention him once, and thereafter you been moonin’ about this house like a lovesick dog.”

Charlotte had shared information on her new role with Sukey, gradually, testing her tolerance for Charlotte’s forthcoming plans.  Sukey had not been surprised, but had cursed Abraham under her breath for allowing her zealous charge to become part of a spy ring. 

Sukey had overheard the opinions of many on the subject of colonial independence, and most did not favor the idea, nor support the cause.  But Sukey supposed that combatting the beliefs of a young girl raised in a cradle of patriotism was a futile effort.  She would much prefer to observe, oversee and protect Charlotte from adverse effects than to exempt herself from cooperation and risk Charlotte causing herself harm, without assistance or guidance.  Sukey was well aware that in comparison with the arrangements of others in her situation, hers was profoundly preferable.  Sukey’s protection of herself required protection of Charlotte.

Sukey shook her head “Come.”

She put her hand out for the perfume bottle.  Charlotte handed it over to her.  Sukey then came around behind Charlotte and tugged gently at her dressing gown, signaling to her charge to shrug off the open garment she’d left open. 

“You douse that in perfume, he gon’ think you wear too much and I don’t wash you right,” Sukey said.

Charlotte giggled. Sukey daubed her neck on three points with the perfume and then gently placed the scarf around Charlotte’s shoulders. While she explained to Sukey her request to place the items in the tree, with the inclusion of an additional treat for Caleb, since she knew Sukey would not allow her down to the dock while she was in only her dressing gown, and Sukey was as yet still dressed, the scarf absorbed the sweet perfume, scents of mandarin, lotus and iris.  

 

Late at night, Caleb Brewster docked his tiny absconded boat and mounted the hill to the great oak tree, looking around to be sure that there were no witnesses.  He made his way up to the oak, reaching his hand into the open cavern, puzzled when at first he felt nothing, grinning when he moved some concealment sticks and debris aside and felt multiple items within. He nodded to himself, retrieving first a small, thin, note, sealed only with wax and no seal. Next, he found a bundle of muslin, within it an apple, a wedge of cheese, some biscuits, and salt port. Grinning openly, he secreted the food away in his coat pocket for his return journey to camp. He furrowed his brow in curious puzzlement as the last package he gingerly pulled from the tree, turning the thick rectangular bundle around in his hands.  Heavy, good quality linen covered the scarf Charlotte had carefully packed away.  Inside, more cloth, Caleb thought, judging by the feel. The last thing he noticed made Caleb smile once more and chuckle to himself.  The deep blue ribbon binding the linen had tucked neatly into it a letter, addressed in beautiful, flowing script to “Captain Benjamin Tallmadge.”

Ambling down to the dock, Caleb shook his head, chucking again to himself.

“Benny Boy.  You lucky arsehole.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This was supposed to be up a lot sooner than now, but I thank you for your patience; here it is!

Caleb found his way to camp in the afternoon of the following day.  At half past four, he made his way back into General Scott’s garrison on the Delaware. His destination was his best friend’s tent.  He had been held up by some heavy rain in which he had needed to hunker down under heavy cover to stay dry and avoid hypothermia in the late autumn chill.  Thankfully, the rain had only lasted a few hours and he was on his way soon thereafter.  He had rationed the food he’d been left in the tree, as well as what he had brought with him from camp, grateful to have had extra in the cold, wet rock cavern under which he’d sheltered those few hours.  He had also managed to keep all correspondence (and accompanying articles) dry, to his delight.  He had placed them inside a sealskin messenger bag he often wore concealed inside his coat, where they had remained throughout his journey.  He wouldn’t have dared open Ben’s personal package from Charlotte, and the unmarked intelligence, while something he’d be privy to, he would wait to read with Ben as well.  As a result, he was anxious to learn of their contents.  Whilst he strode confidently through the encampment in the wood, he placed his left hand against his side so he could feel the reassuring presence of the items in their bag. 

Captain Benjamin Tallmadge was making his very best effort to continue working, combing through a bevy of lackluster intelligence reports on his desk. His regimental coat sat draped over his chair, an oil lamp burning on his desk, and for the fifth time since he sat to read the letters before him, he rose again and began pacing around the limited space inside the tent. He knew it was quite possible that Charlotte had not yet had time to perform observations or compose letters on matters of interest, but he had sent Caleb anyway, thinking that between she and Abraham one of them might at least have left something for the currier to collect.

As the time for Caleb’s return grew more imminent with the passing of each hour of the afternoon, Ben became more anxious, though his ability to conduct himself as an officer would have left none but his closest friends aware of his condition.  Ben was painfully aware of the constancy of Charlotte in his thoughts. But he was also determined to accomplish what he must, and so he struggled as best he could to keep away such pleasant musings, and, if he were honest, fantasies, until he had some time at the close of day to seek some repose and think to himself.

Finally, on a sixth pass of paces around his chair, he looked through the open flap of his tent, which he’d tied off to the side to enjoy the pleasant afternoon air, and saw Caleb standing in consort with a young lieutenant a few yards down the line. 

“Brewster!” he called, not without a bit of urgency in his voice.  Caleb finished chastising the younger soldier (in jest) and departed his company, patting the young man on the back before climbing a small hill to reach Ben at the threshold of his tent.  Before Ben had a chance to ask after the possible success of his trip, Caleb looked up at his friend and smiled  “Have I got somethin’ fer you.”  He followed Ben back into the tent, where his friend sat at his desk, while Caleb pulled up a small stool and perched on it. 

He shuffled around in the sealskin bag to find the lone letter first, handing it over to Ben. 

“Abe?” Ben whispered, turning over the folded, sealed page.  Caleb shook his head.

“Trouble.”  He said, in such a way that Ben knew he meant the girl who bore the nickname, not the noun and its menacing implications itself. 

Ben looked up at Caleb, masking a larger grin with a slightly suppressed smile.  

“Already?” He asked.  Caleb nodded, and smiled in return, nodding with his head towards the folded parchment, waiting for his friend to open it. 

Ben broke open the seal, and read reports of what Charlotte had overheard regarding movements of troops for permanent winter stationing, her observations of some coming and goings of supplies to Setauket, and information suggesting that Major Hewlett, lately of Long Island, was deeply concerned about the possibility of French interference in the sound. Ben nodded.  All things they had been aware of in some respect, but Charlotte’s attention to detail (cleverly disguised as gossip) helped to confirm reports that had been less than complete, and corroborate other fragments of intelligence that could now be properly assessed. He told Caleb as much, and his friend nodded, quite satisfied. 

Caleb had supported Abraham’s idea of including Charlotte, because he knew her, and because, presumably, Abe had already told her enough that it served no purpose not to utilize her if they could. Never would he otherwise have considered allowing a woman to do such dangerous work.  Even asking Anna to hang the signals was a potentially hazardous situation for her each time she did so.  He was glad that he had been right in forwarding the recommendation of Charlotte as an addition to the ring. 

Ben stared at the letter, sitting open on his desk, staring at the rolling, flowing script of words written with Charlotte’s hand, resisting the urge to run his fingertips over the heavy, high quality paper.  He realized Caleb was staring at him, his lips pursed in a mischievous little grin, eyes sparkling.

“What is it, Caleb?”  Ben asked, weary. 

“I told you I had something fer you.” Caleb said. 

Ben lifted the letter from the desk and furrowed his brow, confused.  He assumed he had already been given what Caleb had brought for him. 

“That…is for Washington.” Caleb said. He pulled the wrapped linen and its accompanying letter from his bag, gently holding it out to his friend. “This….is for you.”

Ben reached out his hands and took the linen package, gently clasping it between his palms and thumbs, noting the letter tucked into the ribbon.  He looked at it for a few moments, a warm, pleasant anticipation quickening in his stomach.  

“Caleb, would you give me-”

“Aw, come now, I’ve brought it all this way and you’re not gonna let me-”

“Caleb!  Get out.”  Ben looked up at his friend from his seat at the desk, pleading and commanding at the same time.

Caleb smiled and pointed outside the tent, where the sun was setting and small camp fires were being set up to cook rations. “I’ll just be out there.” He said, trudging off. Ben closed the flap of the tent behind him and sat down to open Charlotte’s parcel. 

 

After he had read Charlotte’s letter four complete times, Benjamin Tallmadge had unwrapped the package containing her scarf. As he gently unfolded it, he noticed first the beautiful sapphire color of the silk, and the bright white stars that seemed so scattered when folded.  He had emptied his desk of all correspondence but the scarf’s accompanying letter.  When it was spread out, he could make out what she had sent him.  It was indeed a map, but she had not done herself justice in its description. The small white thread at one of the corners of the scarf was not lost on him, and as the night wore on, he began to unravel Charlotte’s secret. 

 

At seven o’clock at night, Caleb was summoned back to Ben’s tent.  The scarf lay spread out on the table, but the letter had been carefully folded and tucked into the pocket of Ben’s waistcoat. When Caleb entered, still chewing on a bit of salt pork he had left, he was puzzled when he saw the scarf, but waited for Ben to speak.

“She _made_ this, Caleb, all of these stars.”  Ben gestured to the beautiful pattern in the fabric.  “What do you see?”

Caleb chucked at his enamored friend. “I’m seein’ stars….just like you are.”  He laughed. What’s it I’m supposed to see?”

Ben sighed impatiently  “This map, Caleb, it’s a map, is completely to scale. All the proportions are correct. This thread here,” he pointed out the lone white thread, stitched with vertical navy blue notches, “is the key.”

As Caleb stepped closer to look, Ben unwittingly kept himself between Caleb and the garment, protecting it.

 “These are five mile intervals.  The large stars are colony capitals.  The smaller ones are…places of importance to Miss Adams.  See here,” Ben pointed at the star which signified Catharine Woodhull’s house. “is Setauket, and this, this is her home, in Virginia.”  He pointed at the star in the plantation’s stead. 

 “What was the nature of the letter?” Caleb asked, raising one eyebrow with a saucy grin. He was beginning to understand.

“The nature of the letter was private.”   Ben paused.  “But, I can say it was in hoping to establish trust.”

“Well she’s done it.”  Caleb said.  He pointed to the map.  “She’s just given away all her hiding spots.  And shown you places to find her, if need be.”  Caleb grinned.  “What’re you going to do with it?”

Ben stood upright, as though at full attention “She has entrusted it to my care.” 

Caleb nodded again, tearing off another piece of salt pork from a piece in his pocket.  Ben crinkled up his nose, constantly concerned by Caleb’s limitless supply of mysterious food.  “What is that?” he asked him.

“Trouble gave it to me.  One package for Washington, one fer you, one fer me,” he said, biting off another piece.  “She remembers me well.  Speakin’ of food, you should eat,” he said, patting Ben’s waistcoat with a free hand. Ben winced, thinking Caleb had soiled the pristine ivory garment, but was relieved to see he’d left no mark behind when he pulled his hand away.  Ben sometimes envied Caleb’s ability to wear what he wished.  His friend was right, he should have something to eat.

“Go on, Caleb, I’ll just be a moment,” he replied.

“Sure,” Caleb said, with one last cheeky grin at his friend as he slipped out of the tent. 

Ben began to carefully fold the scarf the way Charlotte had, taking note of the softness of the fabric between his fingers. He had noticed not for the first time the sweet, pleasant notes of flowers as he leaned over the garment, a smell he recognized as Charlotte’s own perfume.  He had resisted the urge to raise the scarf to his nose to breathe in the calming scent, and as he folded the scarf away he chased from his mind thoughts of all the bare places on Miss Charlotte this very scarf had decorated.  Her lily white neck, her shoulders.  Images of her on the dock, the lovely features of her face, glances shed given him, flashed before him again, each for a countless thousandth time.  He’d had a difficult enough time chasing her from his thoughts since they had met, but with this gift he was overcome. The thoughtfulness of sending him something of such value to her, of sharing something she’d made only for herself as a private remembrance, moved him deeply.  He still felt overwhelmed.  He carefully wrapped the scarf back up in its linen, and, with no idea of another place to store it, gently tucked Charlotte’s scarf beneath his pillow, scooping up his coat and throwing it over his shoulders before heading outside to have dinner with Caleb. 

 

In Setauket, after dessert had concluded, guests had been seen to the door, and Charlotte had feigned interest in staying up to read by the fire, while her aunt retired to bed, the silken rebel bounded down the hill to the old oak tree, reaching her hand inside the empty cavern. When she reached past the debris she’d asked Sukey to place there for concealment, and found her correspondence gone, she breathed in an excited gasp of the late autumn ocean air, and turning, leaned back against the oak tree, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths, bathing in the secrecy that was the darkness of night, and in the overwhelming surging of the emotions in her heart. 


	8. Chapter 8

Charlotte sat comfortably on a cushion in front of the fire, organizing the only trunk that would remain in her bedroom. Her more private personal articles and documents of importance would remain inside this locked wooden case, out of the way, but accessible if necessary.  Her wardrobe she had asked Sukey to arrange at her convenience, but Charlotte’s personal effects she was organizing herself.  Sukey was going to store Charlotte’s empty trunks away in a designated area of the eaves, which aunt Catharaine had set aside for Charlotte’s things, now that she was completely settled in Setauket. The few trunks which they hadn’t had occasion to go through earlier had now been unpacked, and Sukey had noticed a melancholy shadow had settled around Charlotte since they had begun the project. She had been so quiet. Sukey thought of how final it all must seem to Charlotte, seeing all of her things arranged neatly, each in its own place, as if it had always been so. This room in Setauket that was now her own. Sukey thought of how sparse Charlotte’s room in Virginia had looked on the day they had left, as she moved back and forth in the new space, between the very last wardrobe trunk, the large tallboy and one of the wardrobes in the room. 

Sadie was taking a survey for herself of the contents of the wardrobes and drawers in the room, as well as the shelves, and other small storage units, to be certain she knew where everything had been stored. Charlotte herself would go through them at her leisure.  While Charlotte had a choice in what she wore, it was Sukey who usually assembled her wardrobe, so Charlotte thought it prudent to allow her to put things where she wished. She thought Sukey far wiser at organization than she anyway. 

Sadie approached the fire and collected the copper warming pan, using a small fireplace shovel to fill it with glowing wood embers, shifting it back and forth as she went to distribute them evenly.

Charlotte would be sleeping with the windows open and a stoked fire, which Sukey thought relatively senseless, and had told her so, but Charlotte had serenely protested that she wanted to hear the sounds of the tide, and Sadie had just smiled in Charlotte’s direction and patted Sukey’s shoulder. 

Satisfied that everything inside the little wooden trunk should remain there, she closed the lid and latched it, standing up and hoisting it into her arms with ease by both of the handles on the sides, capable of her full range of motion now that she had been changed into a nightgown and elegant, billowing dressing gown.  Kneeling beside her bed she carefully put the little chest down and slid it underneath across the wooden floor.  Charlotte had begun to turn down her bed when Sadie’s approach with the ember filled warming pan caused her to back away from the bed and give her berth, going to take a seat in the chair beside the fire. 

Charlotte noticed the small wooden figure of a rabbit that her brother Nathaniel had carved for her when they were younger, which she had placed on top of the piecrust table beside the armchair at the fire. She picked it up and turned it around in her hands, as Sukey and Sadie finished placing the trunks by Charlotte’s door so they could be stored while she sat at breakfast with aunt Catharine the next morning. 

 

Sukey came around and stood in front of Charlotte, looking straight at her so the girl would know she wanted to speak to her. She had put some things aside in the process of their unpacking that had been concealed, but not nearly well enough, and carelessness was no longer something they could afford. She needed to speak with her. She crossed her arms, looking down into the wide brown eyes that looked up at her from Charlotte’s round, pale face.

“We got to talk about some things that need to be put away now,” Sukey said.

“Put away?” Charlotte asked.  She looked around the room, at the small trinkets on the mantle, at her books on all of the built in shelves, at her nightstand, her desk and her vanity, all bedecked with her things.  “We’ve put everything away.”  Charlotte’s bewilderment stemmed completely from exhaustion. She was suddenly concerned there was still more work to do. 

 

Sukey walked around her cherry wood writing desk and opened one of the deeper drawers, reaching inside, retrieving the third edition of a notorious pamphlet, turning it so her charge could view what it was she held.  Charlotte saw the familiar words _Common Sense Addressed to the Inhabitants of America_.

“Nobody can find this,” Sukey said.

“Or this.”  She lifted a set of heavy pages on which the _Virginia Declaration of Rights_ had carefully been pasted after Charlotte cut it from the _Virginia Gazette_ that past June. 

“Especially this,” she said, picking up a leather bound journal into which Charlotte had pasted clippings from the _Gazette_ including patriotic editorials her brothers had written, even one she’d written herself under the anonymous moniker of “A True Virginian” that had been published.  Her own thoughts and inclinations had been intermingled in her own handwriting amidst the varied pasted publications, as well as other news clippings of note, all of a radical nature, across dozens of pages, and Charlotte knew instantly that Sukey was right.  She nodded emphatically in agreement, though she resented having to curtail something so intimate as her private environment to the presumed specifications of a hypothetical discovery. 

“Where shall we put them?” She asked. She prayed Sukey wouldn’t ask her to destroy them.

Sukey reached into the drawer again, picking up a few more items she thought should be put away.  “Your Berlin is in the carriage house.  We got the locked storage under the seats.”

“You have the only key?” Charlotte asked.

She knew which storage Sukey was speaking of, a metal container built to fit inside the carriage’s seats, hidden under the cushions.  It was intended for storing money, nearly impossible to remove, and even more difficult to open beside a key.  A carriage stored away under tarp in a carriage house, which would now rarely be used, was an unlikely target for nosy individuals, so Sukey’s idea was quite bright in Charlotte’s eyes.

“Yes.  Just the one.”  She said. Charlotte nodded.

Sukey stood by the desk, her eyes still fixed on Charlotte.

“I know you’re not finished,” Charlotte said, a small smile on her face. 

Sadie, satisfied that the room was in order, stroked Charlotte’s hair gently as she walked by her, and Charlotte smiled up at her.  “Goodnight, Sadie,” she said.

“’night Miss Charlotte,” she called, leaving Charlotte’s room quietly.

“Come,” Sukey invited, gesturing to Charlotte to follow her so she could tuck her into bed.  She lifted up Charlotte’s down stuffed bedcovers, pulling the warming pan from between them.  Charlotte shrugged off her dressing gown, draping it over the bedcovers before climbing atop the bed and slipping between them, wiggling her feet in the warmth at the bottom of the bed. Sukey went to the fireplace and dumped the embers, adding a few more logs before coming to perch at the edge of Charlotte’s bed, folding her dressing gown carefully as she spoke.

“I suppose I don’t have to tell you whose island you’re on,” Sukey looked at her carefully “despite whose nation you think this is….or should be.”  She allowed her serious demeanor to waiver slightly, turning up her lips at the edges in a smile at the girl sitting beside her. 

“If you going to help this boy,” she felt Charlotte’s legs twitch in excitement, and saw the flush in her cheeks despite he low light of the fire, the one lamp on her desk, and the candle burning beside her. “You got to be smart, and you got to be careful.”

Charlotte nodded, listening. 

“You cannot let your heart rule your mind,” she said. “He is putting his faith in you. But you both have everything to loose.” She thought of the mandatory punishment for a spy, and her blood ran cold, thinking Charlotte now qualified for such a sentence.  How could so much have changed so irreversibly so quickly? 

“Do you promise me you’re going to be careful?” She asked earnestly.

Charlotte nodded again. 

“Sukey,” she began “I’ve wanted for so long to be of help.  And now, with Abraham, and Caleb, and Anna, and…..” she looked down at her hands, folded across her lap over the bedcovers “and Ben,”  she sighed “now I can.  All I have to do is keep my eyes open.”

Sukey chewed her lower lip, worrying the fabric of the dressing gown. 

“The things you hear, the things you see, Charlotte, you can’t worry about what’s happening in this war.  You’ll go mad, and you will destroy your pretense. It’s that pretense that’s gon’ keep you alive.  As best you can, write what you see and think no more of it.  Put it on the page, and send it away.  And trust this man you seem to admire so much.”  Sukey smiled hesitantly.  “Let him take that burden from you.  Serve him as he’s asking.” 

Charlotte smiled and leaned across to take Sukey’s hand and squeeze it.  Sukey squeezed back and rose from her seat, draping Charlotte’s dressing gown across the bench at the end of her bed.  “I promise,” she declared.

“All right.”  Sukey nodded, satisfied, and dropped her hand, patting it for good measure. “Good night, Miss Charlotte.”

Charlotte winced at the formality, but it wasn’t noticed in the low light.  She bundled herself down underneath the bedcovers, curling up on her side as Sukey put out the lantern on her desk and headed for the door. 

“Thank you.  For taking care of me,” she said, her voice small in the dark, high ceilinged room. 

Sukey smiled as she cracked the door open. “Yes, Miss Charlotte,” she said.

Charlotte sighed and blew out the candle beside her bed.  In the flicker of the glow from the fire across the room and the flutter of the shadows on the wall and the floor, Charlotte was lulled into a contemplation, imagining a time she might meet Captain Tallmadge, and he alone, by the oak tree perhaps, and what might happen there.  Thinking of such things a lady would never admit to thinking of.

 

In the darkness of night, Caleb Brewster, boisterous and fresh from a successful game of Hazard and a fair amount of drinking, happened by his best friend’s tent in the late hour, and noticed a lamp was still burning.  Standing respectfully back, he called

“Captain?” in case other officers were in earshot. He liked using formality where it encouraged deference. 

“Caleb,” Ben called, inviting him inside.

Caleb ducked in past one of the tent flaps, and saw his friend seated on his cot in his uniform breeches and shirt. He’d discarded his boots and was seemingly preparing for bed, but Caleb noticed he seemed to have paused in the midst of accomplishing that task.  He approached where Ben sat and noticed that he was holding Charlotte’s gently folded scarf, which he had brought back to him the day before. Ben had remembered it when he’d gone to prepare to retire, and for a brief few moments had been turning it over in his hands as he sat quietly in the glow of a single lamp beside his bed. He’d carried her letter in the pocket of his waistcoat throughout the day, slightly anxious that the scarf had been left unattended under his pillow all day, though he doubted anyone would abscond with it.  Gently rubbing the silk between his fingers he now looked up at his best friend. He smelled whiskey and heard the jingle of coin in Caleb’s pocket.  _He must have robbed them blind,_ Ben thought.  Caleb always did well at Hazard.  He realized he was happy to see him.  He ran the pad of his thumb gently over a large white star.

“Caleb,” he began, in his voice the deep timbre of firm intent and unwavering determination his best friend knew characterized the very resolve that had earned Benjamin all it had thus far. “I have to have her.”

Caleb smiled, a gentle, reassuring smile and cuffed Ben on his left shoulder. 

“You will.”  He turned to leave, and glanced over his shoulder

“G’night, Tall Boy!” he said, disappearing through the flap of the tent.  As Caleb departed, a smile broke across his face, and he whistled an old whaling tune as he found his way to his own tent. 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen,” Sukey raised one finger up in the air as she continued to count with her other hand, silencing Charlotte before a sound could escape her parted mouth. The young patriot had paced around the rug in front of the fireplace at least seven times before the exact moment when she decided to make her inquiry.  Lack of impulse control, coupled with anxiety, had compelled her to break her silence, despite the fact that the older girl was in the midst of counting fresh, clean chemises, neatly stacked on Charlotte’s desk.

Somehow Sukey had anticipated exactly when Charlotte’s tolerance would wear thin and had hushed her before she’d spoken.  Charlotte sighed with relief, and turned to go sit in the armchair by the fire. Now that Sukey knew she wanted to talk, Charlotte could relax until she could be given the necessary attention.

Sukey looked up from her task, moving the final stack of folded chemises into place at the end of a neat row on the desk, now covered with freshly laundered underclothes. Charlotte’s stockings were carefully rolled in dozens of fresh laundered pairs, stacked along with several sets of stays, fichus, nightgowns, dressing gowns, handkerchiefs, and all other manner of personal articles she might require on their three week visit to York City for Christmas.  

Her gowns and petticoats, stomachers, shoes, and personal adornments from jewelry to gloves to small, charming fascinator cocked hats had already been carefully packed away, with the exception of the winter traveling habit she would wear the next day, left out and waiting for her. 

A small trunk Charlotte had packed for herself contained a blank book for writing, stationary, quills, ink, a dozen books she wanted to read, needlework she would begrudgingly work on, sheet music, and a bevy of other articles she felt insecure being without, mostly trinkets of sentimental value.  Among them, a small round silken blue pocket frame in which an illustration of her horse, Powhatan, had been carefully mounted, his handsome chestnut head and neck rendered in watercolors by an artist in Virgina. Smaller likenesses of each of her family members also occupied the small trunk, as well as traveling papers necessitated for her passage, and Sukey’s papers, and pass, which she could wear around her neck if she wanted to spend time on her own in the city. The small trunk sat open on the bench at the end of her bed, abandoned for now, while Charlotte sat worrying in the armchair. 

 

Before Charlotte had the chance to have her question addressed, from beneath the front facing windows of her bedroom came the sounds of hooves approaching at a canter and skidding to a stop in the fine gravel driveway.  Charlotte and Sukey exchanged a glance and paused for a moment, waiting to see what they could hear.  Hearing moderate commotion, they wordlessly made for the door to Charlotte’s bedroom. Charlotte followed closely behind Sukey, trying to make as little noise as possible as they snuck out into the hallway and padded along the runner rug, Charlotte’s robe anglaise rustling around her. They approached the top of the main staircase overlooking the great front hall, and perched out of sight, waiting, as they had done on many occasions in their youth, in Virginia.

 

From below they could hear the sounds of muffled conversation and heavy boots on the hall floor as a guest was ushered into Catharine’s receiving room, and the accompanying sounds of aunt Catharine reporting to said room.  The stranger’s voice was distinctly male, though what little he said to the servant escorting him could not be made out.  And judging by the sounds across the wooden floor of the great hallway, their guest’s footwear could only be a pair of riding boots, the kind so common to military uniforms.  Charlotte looked at Sukey, gesturing with a gentle jerk of her head towards the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway.  The hour was late, nearing ten o’clock.  Sukey nodded.  It had not been lost on her, either.  Whoever was visiting had been sent on urgent business.

 

Sounds from around the corner and down the hall indicated that Charlotte’s last trunk was being brought up the servants’ staircase for Sukey to fill in preparation for their morning departure.  The two girls quickly hurried back to Charlotte’s bedroom, attempting to appear as though they had been there all the while, and not snooping at the top of the stairs.

While Sukey carefully filled the last trunk, packing everything methodically to maximize available space, Charlotte came around to sit on the desk chair and speak with her.

 

“What do you think is happening down there?” Charlotte asked. 

Sukey shook her head “This hour?  I can’t imagine,” she said.

The ticking of the little white clock on the mantle seemed deafening in the uncertainty of the silence. Charlotte knew that she would be called down to see her aunt Catharine, if only to confirm and finalize plans for the morning’s trip to York City.  She was relatively certain that she would find out what the nature and purpose of the visit had been at that point, but until then her concern would remain unabated. 

 

In the three weeks since she had been welcomed into the Culper ring, Charlotte had noticed that her own normally curious and observant approach to sociopolitical interactions around her had transformed into one of acute hyperawareness.  Every uncertain situation for which Charlotte hadn’t the details had the ability to become a catastrophe in which their entire plot could be unraveled.  So soon as she scolded herself for worrying so emphatically, she always reminded herself that it was perhaps that very hyperawareness that would keep her vigilant and safe throughout the war, and make her a more effective agent for Captain Tallmadge. It was of he she was thinking now. It was of he that she was always thinking.

 

She had placed within the secret cavern of the oak tree a letter of intelligence on some of the comings and goings of British ships and supplies in the Setauket harbor.  It had been collected the week before.  She naturally did not expect a response.  A few days previous, she had placed a simple note, hanging the bell to alert Caleb as usual to the presence of a message, which read only

 

_“Visiting York City Until December the 8 th.” _

She had not wanted to arouse concern amongst the rest of the Culpers in case Abraham had not occasion to tell Ben and Caleb that Charlotte would be away from Setauket for nearly three weeks.  She had not expected a response to that communication, either.  Regardless, she had stolen away after dinner and crunched over a thin, delicate crust of ice on the grass, pausing at the top of the hill to check the dock for signals.  She could hear the little ship’s bell ringing in the distance as it hung from the end of the wooden post at the end of the neat row of planks, and her heart had quickened knowing a message had been left for her.  She had no choice but to return to the house, not wishing to raise suspicion by descending the hill whilst servants bustled around the lighted windows of the house and worked in the light of the open doors to the carriage house, preparing the carriage for the morning’s journey. But know she could reveal to Sukey all that she was anticipating. 

 

Sukey looked up at Charlotte from where she was crouched organizing her linens “I know that wasn’t what you were going to ask me.” 

 

Charlotte’s gaze had been fixed on her wringing hands, but she perked up, her eyes shining with intensity, and looked straight at Sukey.  “The bell has been hung.” 

 

Sukey gave her a stern look.  “You got to wait ‘till the house is asleep.” She said firmly. 

 

Charlotte nodded in understanding.  Still, her imagination ran wild at the prospect that she’d have a letter to read, even if it simply contained instructions on how she should make use of her trip. Anything from her handler, or any of the other Culpers, was a welcome arrival.  Charlotte could often not contain the guilt she felt as she flitted from tea to soiree on Setauket, whilst brave young men like Ben, Caleb, and her brothers took such great risk.  She considered herself a paltry contributor, and it vexed her greatly. But visiting York City would provide mountains of intelligence with which she could return, hopefully still valid by the time she came back.  They were to be guests of an old friend of Aunt Catharine, a member of the Peerage called Lady Brightlea.  Charlotte’s anxiety over playing a very important role over the coming weeks was assuaged by the notion that she had the opportunity to make Captain Tallmadge proud of her if she made proper use of her situation and kept her eyes open and ears pricked.

 

Sukey glanced over at Charlotte’s face and noted the faraway look which had come to characterize what Sukey called Charlotte’s “Cap’n Tallmadge face.”

A knock at the door called Charlotte to shake off her reverie and rise to open the door. As she met with a lovely, petite young girl her own age, she recognized Katy, one of her aunt’s favorite handmaids.

“Miss Charlotte, Miss Catharine would speak with you now.”  She said, smiling meekly.  Charlotte nodded and stepped through the door, nodding to Sukey before turning to follow Katy downstairs. 

 

In her receiving room, Aunt Catharine was scrawling in her elegant hand on a piece of stationary, instructions for the running of the house and grounds in her absence. Catharine would bring two servants; Charlotte would travel with Sukey as she always did.  Charlotte followed Katy as she escorted her to the threshold of the small study, quietly announcing

“Miss Charlotte, m’am,” before slipping away to return to her last minute tasks.

Soon, the house would be preparing for bed.  Catharine finished writing her line of text before she looked up and smiled at her great niece.  “Come, Charlotte,” she said, patting the settee beside her desk chair.

Charlotte dutifully sat, discreetly moving her panniers under her over robe and petticoats so she could sit comfortably.

Aunt Catharine turned her attention fully to her niece. 

 

“Tomorrow morning, we will cross Oyster Bay, take the Brookland Ferry, and be in York City by late afternoon.  Lady Brightlea has a…” she sighed gently, with a slight shake of her head “completely filled social calendar for us both.  Poor old girl, I think she’s intending to parade you around to all the officers, and she’s aware of your musical talents, so I did want to make you aware.”

Charlotte had been told in previous conversations about their hostess that while Lady Brightlea and her now deceased husband, Lord Brightlea, had two boys of whom they were immensely proud, Lady Brightlea had always longed for a daughter of her own. Charlotte was prepared to be interrogated and fussed over. 

 

“Are they aware of the affiliations of…my siblings?” Charlotte asked.

Aunt Catharine nodded. “It won’t be discussed, at least, as far as she’s able to control.”  She said.

Charlotte nodded, terribly grateful for this fact.  She hated feigning disappointment in her brothers.  It brought her tremendous guilt and shame, even in pretense, even though they had told her to do so to save her own skin. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, glancing demurely down at the lovely blue and white patterns of her topmost petticoat.

In a rare show of physical affection, Catharine reached out to the arm of the settee and gently patted Charlotte’s hand.  Charlotte raised her eyes to smile at her.  Sukey often reminded Charlotte that Catharine was no fool.  It was in moments such as these when Charlotte was convinced that Catharine was aware that they were both players on the same team. Illusion as survival, two costumed ladies delivering lines. 

Charlotte changed the subject “There was a rider who arrived earlier.”

Catharine stifled a small groan.  “A courtesy from Major Hewlett. Your Uncle,”

she always referred to Richard in this way when she was dissatisfied with his behavior “had a visit from some incensed residents, at his home, not half an hour ago. Very upset that he’s considering utilizing gravestones from the churchyard for fortification of the church, as I imagine they would be.  Hewlett wanted to be certain I was aware of the hostility levied upon Richard, though he doubts I will have encouraged similar wrath, being entirely removed from that situation.”  The way aunt Catharine emphasized the word ‘that,’ as though specifying something for which she harbored particular disdain, suggested to Charlotte that there was disagreement between the two elder Woodhulls on a subject Charlotte wasn’t entirely privy to.  She also had the indication that the situation was not entirely public relations related, and could be an issue of internal affairs, as they were. 

 

Charlotte was dismissed with final instructions for the morning’s departure, hurrying up the stairs to rejoin Sukey in her bedroom, and share the information she had gathered with her. 

“Headstones?” Sukey had asked, casting a disdainful glance to no one in particular, peppered with disbelief. 

Charlotte nodded “the situation is very grave.”  She stifled a grin.

Sukey shook her head, tossing a nightgown at Charlotte.  “For tonight.” She said. 

 

The final trunks sealed and prepared for the morning, Sukey helped Charlotte to disrobe, buttoning her into a long, elegant silk dressing gown over her warm winter nightgown. As she stood behind the dressing screen, moving like a puppet as Sukey manipulated her limbs to get her out of certain garments, she remembered Sukey would have three weeks away from her mother.  She vowed to be especially kind to her over the next few weeks. 

 

Tucked into her bed, lulled by the popping and crackling lullaby of the settling fire, Charlotte read _Candide_ impatiently by light of the candle on her nightstand as she waited for Sukey’s return. She had gone to her modest room in the servant’s quarters to finalize her own packing, promising to return when Charlotte could safely go to the water’s edge.  Sukey herself had placed two of Charlotte’s three pieces of correspondence thus far, but had quickly learned that trips to the oak tree were a kind of private thrill for Charlotte, and had decided not to deny her. From the servants’ quarters, Sukey could accurately assess the level of activity in the house, and would wait until a hush had fallen and all the lights had gone out before escorting Charlotte outside. 

 

Three knocks on the door saw Charlotte casting her book aside and flinging the covers off of herself, hopping down to the floor and snatching her dressing gown from the bench at the end of the bed, swinging it around and over her shoulders. Arms through the sleeves, she neglected to fasten the gown, choosing instead to hurry to Sukey. She flung the door open with more of a flourish than she had intended, and Sukey’s raised eyebrows suggested her excitement, while unabatable, could at least be a bit better concealed. Sukey shook her head, dressed in her own nightgown and dressing gown, and entered the room, automatically fastening the hooks which would hold the ornate silk garment closed. As they stood by the door, Charlotte slipped her feet into her slippers and waited patiently. Satisfied, Sukey gestured out the door and the two slinked along the hall to the servants’ staircase. Sneaking through the prep kitchen and out into the hallway, Charlotte scrunched up her mouth as she carefully creaked open the door to the porch.  Waiting as she had before, Sukey hid in the shadows against the brick wall at the back of the house, perching on the railing. 

Charlotte gave her an enthusiastic grin, stepping methodically down the slightly icy steps and around the side of the house, hurrying towards the oak tree. Before going to the tree, delaying her satisfaction, Charlotte carefully navigated the hill and stepped down onto the planks of the dock, walking to the very end where she crouched and lifted the bell on it’s strong rope, carefully moving it back to the heavy wooden box it remained in when not serving as a signal.  Turning back towards the house, she saw nothing amiss, and she paused for a moment, looking back on Long Island Sound once more as the reflections of moonlight fluttered distorted on the sea.  Her hair loose and whipping about her face in the ocean breeze, she looked across to the shores of Connecticut and wondered where her Captain might be.  She turned back, knowing she should hurry, if only not to worry Sukey, and carefully navigated the hill back up to the oak tree.  Finding her footing in a bit of slush amongst the roots, her slippers, though intended for walking, growing slightly wet and cold, she reached up into the tree, moving aside sticks and dried leaves until she could feel the folded, intentional corners of a letter.  Carefully pulling it free, she tucked it inside her dressing gown and carefully bunched her garments in her hands, so as not to trip, hurrying quickly up the hill to meet Sukey.

 

Safely tucked away in bed, under a mass of down comforters, with most of the curtains closed around her canopy, save for the one directly beside her bed, that the light from the candle might illuminate the letter, Charlotte held it carefully in her hands. Addressed to no one, it could be intended for none other.  She turned it over gently and noted the seal, a simple drop of wax into which someone had gently carved a single star.  Charlotte’s heart leapt. Breaking the red wax disc gently, she unfolded the page, her eyes skimming over the thin, elegant letters of the slightly slanted handwriting.

 

_Our Most Valued Correspondent,_

_It was with apprehensive anticipation that we learned of your forthcoming journey to such an advantageous port. It is our sincere hope that uncompromised safety and genuine comfort will be afforded you whilst you are away._

_I implore you to remember the gravity and danger of your situation.  Your bravery and dedication are lost on none, but I beg you remember that above all missions I could require, that of your preservation is paramount._

_At great risk in entering into such detail, I must tell you I am terribly grateful for the garment which you have entrusted to my care.  You cannot know how great a comfort it has been to me._

_I realize our uncommonly treacherous circumstances may have emboldened me in writing these words I now put to paper, but I wish to inform you that your brilliant map is constantly on my person, and your correspondence I have kept always in my waistcoat, where it has remained a source of continued reference and pleasure to me.  Please be assured, you have my trust, my admiration, and my devotion._

_If you will permit me to unburden myself further, I must tell you I could hardly bear the notion that you depart for an island rife with enemies knowing not how dear you are to me. And you are, fresh as our acquaintance may be, profoundly dear to me._

_With Deepest Affection,_

_Your Dedicated Handler_

With a dreamy sigh and an excited wiggle of her feet, Charlotte slid down from where she had been propped up against her pillows, fidgeting excitedly under her covers, holding the letter to her chest gently.  She read it over as many times as she could manage before she began to yawn. Her journey the following day would be long. Turning on her side, she adjusted her pillows so she might sleep, and blew out the candle beside her bed. She placed the letter seal up beside her on the bed, beneath the covers, running her index finger over the wax star as she closed her eyes.  Biting her bottom lip before settling down for the night, Charlotte smiled for the hundredth time since retrieving her letter, and whispered softly “Captain.”

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Charlotte peeked out of her bedroom window, noting that Aunt Catharine’s ornately decorated carriage had been brought around in the driveway.  She looked over at Sukey, who was fastening her own taupe woolen cape over her dress.  Charlotte turned about, giving one last glance around the bedroom to be sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.  Looking once more in the mirror, she glanced at her charcoal grey traveling habit to be sure everything was in place.  She checked the cuffs of the elegant, high necked jacket of velveteen with inverted box pleated skirt, shorter than, yet in emulation of the typically long over robes of her robes Anglaises et Francaises.  The skirt beneath naturally matched, and was cut to walking length. Sukey had pinned in place a charming little black cocked hat, smaller than that a gentleman might wear, made to sit charmingly above the updo of curls Sukey had arranged at the back of Charlotte’s head.  She turned back to Sukey, smiling at her.   Over Sukey’s left arm was draped Charlotte’s black capelet, should she become cold despite her warm habit, and a black fox fur collar she could drape around her neck and shoulders atop it.  Fixing the stark white lace fichu at her neck where it protruded above the last few buttons and black braided trim of her jacket, Charlotte turned and set to her last task, putting on her matching black gloves, before nodding to Sukey that she was ready to depart. 

As Charlotte descended the stairs, parting ways with Sukey when she left to take her own staircase, she noticed the servants of the house had lined the great hallway leading to the front doors as was customary when the residents of the house were departing for an extended amount of time.  At the end of the line closest to the stair was Sadie, who Charlotte smiled at and embraced without second thought, squeezing her gently as the older woman put her strong arms around Charlotte and hugged in return, patting her back gently. 

“Merry Christmas, Miss Charlotte.  Safe journey,” she said quietly.

Charlotte pulled away and held Sadie’s hands in hers, memorizing her face for a moment.

“Goodbye, Sadie. Merry Christmas. We’ll see you in three weeks.”  

As she made her way out the front door, Charlotte made eye contact with and nodded to the rest of the servants.

“Merry Christmas, Everyone!” she called from the threshold, receiving appreciative nods in return.

As Sukey said goodbye to her mother, she cradled her extra tight, and nearly blanched when her mother almost slipped but seemed to catch her mistake as she spoke, saying

“You mind your s-elf now.”

“I will, mama,” was all Sukey said.  “Merry Christmas.”

 

When Sukey joined Charlotte, who had waited to descend the front steps until she could be accompanied, Sukey noticed slight disappointment on her face.  Walking a respectful distance behind Charlotte, she could yet hear her charge mutter “I suppose we’re not riding together,” and it was then Sukey noticed a second carriage parked behind the first. It was not ordinary for servants, especially those like Sukey in the role of slave, to ride in the carriage of their mistresses, but it was something for which Charlotte was frequently forgiven when traveling by herself.  Now in the company of her aunt, she supposed that was not possible. Aunt Catharine’s own servants were already seated in the second carriage, and so when her black Louis heels met the driveway, Charlotte again parted ways with Sukey, who joined the other two ladies. 

Charlotte knew Sukey would have much to tell her upon their unpacking that evening. Over the many journeys Charlotte had taken throughout her lifetime, she had become aware of the amount of useful information that could be obtained in the process of conversations occurring servant to servant.  In a busy, bustling house like Aunt Catharine’s, there had been little time since their arrival for Sukey, Sadie and the other servants to speak with one another candidly, and Charlotte knew this ride to York City would provide ample opportunity for Sukey to obtain valuable household information.  Information which she supposed could only help and not hinder their efforts in the Culper ring.  She thought of her letter from her handler, which Sukey had discovered upon waking Charlotte in the morning, and had intelligently thought of hiding inside one of a pair of pockets she wasn’t brining with her to York City. Folded into a tiny square, tucked in the very bottom of a large pocket, and buried deep inside the tall boy dresser in her bedroom, in a covert compartment, the likelihood of it being discovered was in fact not likely at all.  Reading it before bed had committed some of his sentiments to memory, memories she’d conjure late at night in the darkness of her York City bedroom.

 

As she crunched across the fine gravel of the drive, Charlotte was greeted by a footman with a kind “Good Morning,” an open door, and a gentle hand with which to steady herself as she placed her toes on the footplate and stepped up into the carriage.  Moving about until she was comfortable, she noticed several warmers about the floor, and the relative warmth of the carriage itself. She stifled a laugh to herself as a sentiment of her brother Edward’s regarding how cold the elderly always seemed to be resurfaced in her mind.  He had not put it delicately, and Charlotte had to purse her lips to keep from laughing aloud.  A sudden, dull throb had filled her chest then, a heavy weight that came on suddenly and seemed to shorten her breath.  She missed them all, terribly. 

 

When Aunt Catharine arrived ready to depart, she was ushered into the carriage with the usual amount of ceremony that accompanied her movements to and fro. As the carriage rolled away, Aunt Catharine chattered good naturedly about Lady Brightlea and her household, certain individuals of note who they were likely to encounter, and the more anticipated goings on in York City for the holiday social season. Charlotte attempted to keep the craning of her neck discreet as she sought a few last longing glances at the dock and the oak tree, her heart sinking as she thought on just how long she’d be away. She hoped her fellow Culpers wouldn’t think better of asking her to help in the time she was gone. Keeping the conversation as politely as possible despite her distraction and relative disinterest, Charlotte was relieved when Aunt Catharine announced her intention to nap until their arrival at the Brookland Ferry.  She was left then to her thoughts.  Her brothers knew nothing of her movements.  The thought frightened her.  Then she turned her head to gaze out between the drawn back privacy curtains at the frigid winter ocean passing by the carriage window, and smiled to herself, thinking at least two members of the Continental Army knew of her whereabouts, which certainly must be better than no one knowing at all. 

 

The Brookland Ferry, a frequent travel resource of Aunt Catharine’s, brought both carriages over the Hudson River by late afternoon, and as the sun was setting over York City, Charlotte watched from the window as candles and lamps were lighted in the windows of homes and businesses and in the streets, casting a strange glow over the chilly little city as the carriage rumbled past. When at last they stopped at a large white home, aglow with candles and bedecked with ribbons, garlands and Christmas accoutrements, Catharine had straightened herself in preparation to disembark. It was then that a portly, jovial woman, accompanied by a bevy of servants who fluttered about her like hummingbirds about a large flower, appeared in the glow of the front door and hustled out in procession to welcome the lady’s guests.

“Ohhh Caaathariiiinnne…” came the happy, lyric intonations of Lady Brightlea’s voice.  “Welcome!”  She called from the top of the stairs, waiving in the general direction of the carriage windows. 

Aunt Catharine sighed, shaking her head and chuckling to herself as one who truly loves a truly eccentric friend might, and looked up at Charlotte.

“Our hostess,” she smiled.  “Are you ready?”

Charlotte grinned. “Always.” 


	11. Chapter 11

_Virginia, 1767_

* * *

 

 Nero felt the gentle tug of his master’s hand through the snaffle in his mouth, and he collected his canter to the best of his ability.  Hooves kicking a cloud of red dust, he trained his eyes on the driveway outside the large white and brick house, where Samuel would be waiting to care for him once his master dismounted.  Kindly, he would speak to the horse as he untacked him and poured over his back cool water from the river, taking him for a walk in the shade to cool him down, allowing him water each time they passed by his freshly drawn bucket. Samuel would already be waiting there, though the Bostonian and his warmblood were still several hundred yards from the drive.  As Sadie cast her glance upwards and peered through the windowpanes mounted in the French doors at the front of the bedroom, she could see man and horse on the approach. Carefully, she laid out the gown she was folding and went to find her mistress, hurrying quietly along the wide upstairs hall until she reached the back porch.  Stepping out onto the deck of the upper porch where the young blonde was sitting, huddled in the shade of both the porch roof and the shade cast by the enormous live oak beside the house, she cleared her throat gently. A bright eyed, cherubic face peeked up from the book in her hands and gave Sadie full attention. Sadie was constantly surprised after five children how the woman still looked like one herself. Always cheerful, with ever a smile on her unlined face.

“Miss Lavinia,” Sadie said.  “Mister August on the approach.” 

Lavinia beamed, her dimples revealed, appearing on both cheeks.  In a flutter of silk and cotton, she turned to place her book on her chair, and followed behind Sadie, who returned to the bedroom to fold while Lavinia quickly padded down the stairs in her slippers. 

 

August Adams spoke gently to his horse, easing him down to a working walk as they made their way towards Sam. Stopping beside the middle-aged man, who acted as his master of horse, August nodded to him, calling jovially

“Afternoon, Sam!”

“Afternoon, Sir,” the man replied. He took Nero’s reins as August swung effortlessly down from his saddle, giving the coal black horse a hearty pat on the neck and scratching his forelock before moving around him and energetically ascending the stark white stairs leading up to his verandah. As he looked up, he realized his pretty young wife had appeared in the doorway of their home, her hands folded demurely before her, a bright, welcoming smile on her face.

“Lavinia,” he said, removing his cocked hat and bowing to her.  She laughed and closed the gap between them, wrapping her arms about his neck and planting a kiss on his cheek, which he returned with a strong embrace about her waist and a demure kiss on her lips. 

“How was Richmond?” She asked, conversing with him pleasantly as they walked from the front of their house through the wide, open hallway out through the back, onto the westerly facing back porch.

August made a dissatisfied sound “These Townshend Duties, Nee, I fear they’re a harbinger for the beginning of the end.”

“The end?”  She asked.

“Of our patience.”  He said.   He ran his hand through his dark copper hair, an action which often accompanied his stress.

“I may go to Boston, soon.  When Teddy returns to school, and Nathaniel matriculates, I’ll accompany them.  There is much to discuss, and my friends there are eager to explore….”

Lavinia held up a finger.  “You seem agitated just speaking of it.  When the time comes, I’m sure you’ll tell me what you’ve decided on.” She knew her August to be a man easily stirred by emotion and sense of justice, and preferred to allow him to enjoy his time at home instead of stirring up echos of arguments he undoubtedly had with the other affluent gentlemen of influence he had met with in Richmond.  She followed him as he descended the back porch steps and began to walk down the grassy hill towards the yard separating the house from the barn and fields. August sighed as though he had only just now noticed something was missing. 

“And where, might I ask, are my children?”

Lavinia smiled.  “They’ve taken out the horses.” She furrowed her brow “Though they have been gone since early afternoon…” she looked across the sky, noting the lateness of the hour.  Across the fields, quitting time would soon be announced, and the pleasant smells of dinner could already be detected from their kitchen house and the slave quarters. Suddenly, she noticed August’s ears seem to perk.  He held up his hand.

“What is it?”  She asked.

“The earth….is moving.”  He said, a smile laced with pride and satisfaction on his face. She listened, keeping quite still, and felt a gentle rumble in the ground beneath her feet.  August walked around to the side of the estate, towards the small, shallow valley in which the river beside the house ran, waiting to see from which direction they would come.  The house, it’s drive trimmed with live oaks, had small wooded pockets beside it, which gave way to the open fields at the back of the home. But the forest that had been left in tact was a fabulous place to ride.  The first horse to emerge had William aboard, August’s eldest son and the blood bay gelding he’d raised from a colt bursting at a lively gallop into the open field. Teddy and Valens, his black gelding with four startlingly white socks and an impressive white blaze, kept even pace with his elder brother.  Following close behind, a wildly weaving trio could be seen.  A sooty bay carried his son Edward, while Nathaniel rode a dapple gray. And his daughter, Charlotte, on her seventeen hand high copper chestnut warmblood. For the brightness of his coat, Powhatan ought to have had a flaxen mane.  But his color was uniform, but for his white back socks and neat white blaze. He saw a flurry of rose colored silk robe and white floral patterned petticoat, heard the ringing bells of her airy laugh across the yard as she daringly scooted in front of her brothers, and pulled ahead towards William, who had descended the embankment and was charging across the river in a shallow place strategically chosen for their crossing. In a flurry of hoots and laughter and a halo of spray, August’s five children splashed through the cool water, cantering up the embankment, slowing as they came to greet their father. Charlotte, red faced, with budding freckles, which could have only come from her day’s exposure to the sun, smiled bashfully, with a hint of remorse and guilt.  Her bergere hat hung loose and useless from her neck by the ribbon that had once held it close to her head, her hair half undone. The pins that had held it in place were carefully tucked inside the hem of her sleeve where they would pinch neither she nor Powhatan, but where Sukey could easily retrieve them. She prayed she could dismount before her mother noticed she was riding straddle.  In the commotion of her brothers’ greetings for her father, she hopped carefully down at patted Powhatan’s neck as she moved about him, running up her stirrups and loosening his girth. 

When at last August came to her, brothers filing off towards the barn, she embraced him tightly, saying “Welcome home, father.” When he pulled back to examine his daughter, who he hadn’t seen in three weeks, he smiled. 

“You kept up.”  He said firmly. 

She nodded, attempting to remain stoic like her brothers and not gush at his compliment.  August’s face broke open in a wide grin, infectious, which Charlotte returned in kind.

“Go on,” he said, gently touching her arm to usher them both off to where she could cool her horse out.  Going to join his wife, he put his arm around her waist and watched his children make their way to where they stabled the horses.

“Each of you care for his own horse,” he called. “Sam is busy enough!”

A chorus of assent was returned by each of his offspring.  Watching them go, he saw his daughter turn and cast him a warm smile, her eyes shining. He smiled at her in return, compelled to say nothing, needing to say nothing.  The pride with which he watched them grow had always been enough.

 

_New York, December 1776_

* * *

 

Laying on her side, squishing the the rag curls that were settling in her hair against her pillow, Charlotte sighed. While the comfort of the bed in her Christmas quarters at Lady Brightlea’s York City home was undeniable, Charlotte yet felt unable to relax.  Never had she missed her home so much.  Always she missed her father and mother.  But so very keenly did she feel their loss now.  In a distant city, in the belly of the enemy, near nary a place that would ever be her home, she felt an acute despair.  Wound around the fingers of her left hand was the chain of a necklace of gold and glass in which were held the baby curls of all five of Lavinia’s children. Her mother had left it home with them when they had boarded the boat for Bermuda.  And now Charlotte held it for comfort, tangible evidence of her mother’s love for she and her brothers.  Alone and afraid, nearly buckling under the weight of her fear and the pressure to perform her duty, she wept.  In Virginia, she’d have padded barefoot to Sukey’s bedroom, sought her comfort in the woman who knew her best.  Here, she dwelled in feigned ambivalence and protected, cowardly neutrality, numbed by the importance of her task and the gravity of her situation. In the morning, she would be strong. When the sun rose, and Sukey shook out her curls she’d dress herself for battle and lock a kind of armor around her heart.  But here, in the dark, huddled under silken bed sheets in the grand upstairs room of a magnificent house, outside which the flag of England flew, she allowed herself to feel, and to grieve. 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Charlotte rolled the library ladder across the floor on the track, scanning her eyes along the stacks to be sure she was stopping it in the correct place.  So soon as she had a tour of the house, she had regretted bringing along her own books from Catharine’s house.  She wouldn’t have need of them.  She had been shown to the library and invited to avail herself of the collection therein. The tremendous quantity of volumes was nothing short of overwhelming.  Charlotte climbed carefully until she was level with the fifth shelf and reached out to pull a large, illustrated volume from its place. _A Catalouge of Known Mammals_ , declared the cover. Clutching it to her chest, she descended, backing down the ladder carefully until she reached the floor, where she found herself a place to sit on a settee.  Leafing carefully through the volume, not yet stopping to read, simply perusing the remarkable illustrations, she waited for Sukey. She would read when she had time to sit uninterrupted, but for now she sat in her light blue winter walking habit, attempting not to grow antsy. 

Sukey had volunteered herself into the serving rotation, a successful way to integrate oneself as the servant of a guest in the household, and guarantee amicability between herself and the rest of the servants at Lady Brightlea’s home.  It was a house with plenty of servants to accomplish the various tasks of each day, so Sukey would remain at Charlotte’s disposal the majority of the time. Now, however, Sukey was helping to finish clearing up after breakfast, and would return to the bedroom she shared with a few other female servants to retrieve her cloak and accompany Charlotte on her errand of Christmas shopping.  Sukey had attempted to assuage Charlotte’s concerns that all the best Christmas presents would have been purchased by the time she reached the shops, but anxious as Charlotte generally was, it had done little to settle her nerves. To save time, Charlotte had changed herself from her morning dress into her walking habit following the repast, and was rather pleased with herself in her efficiency.  Another little cocked hat had been affixed to the hairstyle Sukey had arranged atop her head, with cascading curls falling about her shoulders, and her gloves sat beside her on the settee. 

Charlotte looked up, smiling, as Sukey appeared, dressed comfortably for the weather in a simple warm woolen robe anglaise, and her brown woolen cape.  She held Charlotte’s woolen navy blue calf length cape in her arms, as well as the red fox wrap (comprised of several foxes) that would go over the shoulders of the cape and fasten across her collarbones with a chain.  Charlotte rose and returned the book to its place, memorizing its location so she might return to it later, and stepped out into the hall where she allowed Sukey to outfit her with the warm garments she had brought, knowing Charlotte would attempt to leave for the morning with only her walking habit to keep her warm.  It was then, as Sukey was adjusting Charlotte’s cape and fur to be certain they sat the way she wanted them to, that a young man of around twelve appeared at the threshold of the prep kitchen at the end of the hall.  Wringing his knitted cap in his fingers, he approached quietly, sneaking up with an almost guilty look on his face, knowing little of women’s mysterious preparations, hoping not to interrupt an important ritual. 

“Miss Charlotte?” Came the small, almost apologetic, yet surprisingly deep and horse voice of the boy. 

Charlotte turned her head as far as she was able and smiled a wide grin at him, hoping to put him at ease.  “Yes?”  
“I’m Jonathan Nesbitt.  Lady Brightlea says I’m to accompany you on your shopping trip and be at your assistance. And I’m to help you carry packages.” The young man looked down at his feet, shifting them slightly, wringing the cap again. 

“Well, Mr. Nesbitt,” Charlotte said, reaching into her cape and patting her topmost petticoat to check the contents of her tied on pockets for the money and personal effects stored there, righting her garments when she was satisfied.  “We shall be most happy to have you in our little party.”  She smiled again, and saw the boy’s face drop the tension held there, replaced by relief and a shy, grateful smile.  Charlotte nodded to Sukey. 

“This is Miss Sukey, and she will be joining us. She is with me always.”

Charlotte beckoned to him, and he walked towards her, following she and Sukey as they made their way to the front door. He and Sukey exchanged polite nods and brief smiles.

“I trust you might also know _where_ the shopping might take place in this city, as well?” Charlotte made a slightly bashful face at the prospect of having admit to a child that her original plan had simply been to politely inquire with women of her own station who she might pass, and find her own way.  Of course, to an extent, she had also assumed that Lady Brightlea might send along someone to be her guide to the city, given that she had already accounted for anything and everything else her guests might have need of in the short time they had been there. She had been told that the finest shopping was within walking distance, and had expressed her interest in exploring the city on foot in places where it was safe to do so.

The young man straightened, nodding. He had been given specific instructions to take Charlotte to the city’s best luxury shops, those preferred by Lady Brightlea, and to avoid the area known as Holy Ground at all costs. “I will lead you there myself, miss.”

 

The charming little band made their way through the streets of York City, bundled against the late morning chill. Charlotte had done a great deal of thinking about how she would approach her social situation throughout the Christmas season.  Major Hewlett certainly wasn’t anyone she was immediately concerned about, enamored as he was of Catharine and her maternal charm, and overwhelmingly harmless on his own. From Sukey Charlotte had learned that it was Major Hewlett who had protected Catharine from the potentially unpleasant and awkward situation of having soldiers quartered with her. Despite the enormity of the house and relative emptiness of its many bedchambers, Hewlett had decided that an unmarried, elderly woman living alone should not be subjected to the intrusion of occasionally boisterous young men, and had taken her off the list of mandated hosts.  Charlotte appreciated his concern for Catharine’s welfare, all the more now that she had become involved in the Culper ring and was herself able to benefit from the privacy she could enjoy without soldiers traipsing about. Hewlett was someone she was confident she could successfully charm in the same way she had her Uncle Richard over the years. She was aware that the other officers she would meet, however, were critical of Hewlett and his rather more provincial methods and locale, calling him “The Oyster Major,” a moniker she was certain he was probably aware of.  She would now be dealt a hand by far more skilled players, and realized she must prepare herself for such.  With that in mind, and the knowledge that she would certainly be encountering intelligence agents in particular, and particularly during this, the Christmas season, when many ranked officers in the Crown’s armed forces made their way to York City for a bit of repose and celebration, Charlotte had decided not to lie. Considering the fact that she had long ago been correctly branded a terrible liar by her brothers, and the very real possibility that should she attempt to fabricate stories that were actually believed, they might become somehow crossed or confused, and she faced a greater risk of upsetting her cover.  Thus, Charlotte resolved to speak true statements wherever she was able, should anyone inquire after her political leanings or thoughts on the war given her familial connections.  She would express her intense desire for the conflict to come to a conclusion, and omit “with the unconditional surrender to General Washington.” She would express her great affinity for her home and her family, coupled with her fervent wish that they remain unharmed throughout the conflict, and omit the fact that her brothers’ sentiments were ones she shared.  In this way, she hoped to maintain her safety and maximize her efficacy for the Culper ring.

 

  The sun, as it rose higher, served to warm them a bit, and they arrived at the shops before the bitter cold of the ocean breeze had the chance to overwhelm them.  With a slight pang of guilt, Charlotte purchased fine goods that had quite obviously come from England, or had been provided by English merchant ships, hoping it would look favorably upon her amongst those who would care, knowing word of a new, relatively unknown shopper purchasing large quantities of Christmas gifts would circulate at least amongst certain parties. Charlotte also wished to be finished with her shopping on that very day, so that should she return to the marketplace, or to the shops, it would be without worry over pressure to purchase gifts. When she had finished her shopping for everyone else, Charlotte asked that Sukey and Jonathan make themselves scarce, Charlotte herself in the hands of the very doting shopkeeper, whilst the other two would keep one another company in the warm sunshine of the early afternoon.  Charlotte would be brief. She had already decided what she wanted for Sukey, having seen the items (and Sukey admiring them) but deciding to keep them secret, and she traveled around the shop asking the shopkeeper to wrap them for her.  For young Mr. Nesbitt, Charlotte purchased a package of sweets, which she would give him in a gesture of thanks for his assistance. 

 

When Charlotte had finished and the group was on its way, both Sukey and Jonathan, as well as one of the shopkeeper’s sons, and Charlotte herself, had boxes piled from their arms to their chins, making their way along the half frozen muddy streets of York City.  Charlotte judged that the young men had been given the lion’s share, as was typical, and she turned her head around the smaller boxes in her arms to peek at Sukey and ask, giggling

“Can you _see_?”

Sukey laughed.  “Yes.”  She moved closer to Charlotte so she could speak candidly. 

“I can see where I’m goin’, I just can’t see what I’m steppin’ on,” she continued, as she maneuvered around a grouping of cobblestones that had become uneven.

Charlotte pursed her lips to keep from laughing out loud, muttering in the other’s ear

“In a British city, I’d be more concerned about what we’re stepping _in_.”

Sukey raised her eyebrows in warning, the lines around her mouth tightening, but her eyes were laughing.  Charlotte glanced behind them, noticed that the boys were hanging back at a respectful distance, and was satisfied they had heard nothing.

 

John Andre allowed himself a self-indulgent dejected sigh as his receiving room door closed, the last of his morning appointments concluded.  His tea had gone cold, and he bemoaned his lack of competent servants.  Gathering the few documents he had referenced in the course of his discussion with the young captain who had just departed, he placed them back in one of his many leather folios and rose to stretch his legs and gaze out the window towards the sea.  As he stared out in the direction of the water from his vantage point on the second floor, he happened to notice an interesting little troupe picking their way through the half frozen muddy street below.  He recognized young Martin, the shopkeeper’s son, though he knew him not by name but by sight.  He occasionally delivered luxury provisions the short distance to the Major’s commandeered home. Beside him, Jonathan, a young man he was quite familiar with as Lady Brightlea’s errand boy.  What first caught John Andre’s attention was the impeccable dress of the woman he thought must be the other’s slave or servant. It was rare enough to see an individual of such status in such apparently intimate consort with her mistress, but the fine composition and seemingly expert tailoring of her garments caused Andre to pause.  It was not that she dressed above her station, simply that she seemed unusually well outfitted for one of her status.  Charlotte’s face was obscured both by her packages and in the way she inclined her head to the right to speak to Sukey.  And then, as Jonathan indicated with a sharp jerk of his head (hands completely encumbered by all of the boxes therein) that they should cross the street, she turned in his direction, and John Andre’s gaze fell upon one of the loveliest faces he’d had opportunity to behold, in the Colonies or elsewhere. None of her party could have seen him standing at the window, for the way the sun was shining into the glass paned window, but before she disappeared onto the path below, to turn the corner and head in the direction of Lady Brightlea’s nearby home, Andre watched her expressions as they played across her pretty face, the way she walked, the shining copper auburn of her hair, and the awkward way she seemed to be trying to navigate her steps with such a plethora of boxes in his arms. He allowed himself a soft chuckle and a gentle, closed lipped smile, and reluctantly turned to leave the room.


	13. Chapter 13

Charlotte shuddered delightedly as the pleasant chill of a bracing evening breeze whipped around her.  She had waited an inordinate amount of time in the front hallway, stuffed into a deep turquoise robe francaise and sweating under the burden of her black wool cape and the mass of black mink capelet draped over it. She had been thankful for the powder and perfume Sukey had garnished her with before dressing her.

Taking the offered hand of the footman whose other held open the carriage door for her, she stepped up onto the footplate of Lady Brightlea’s carriage and ducked her head inside, shuffling herself across the silk cushion in the tremendous bulk of her evening finery, over to the opposite side of the rig.  She tapped absentmindedly with her ivory silk glove at the hair ornament that Sukey had pinned up above her left ear to accent her upswept hair.  It would be just like Charlotte to have knocked it astray and not notice. She scrunched herself against the far window, gazing out through the pane of glass.  In the glow of the lanterns on either side of the carriage windows, a few scattered flakes of snow had just begun to fall lackadaisically to the ground.  A small caged heater filled with glowing coals sat in the middle of the carriage, and as they entered the carriage the two older women, Catharine and Lady Brightlea, gingerly settled themselves in around it for the short trip to their evening social engagement. 

When the doors were secure, the gentle jolt of the carriage as the wheels began to turn briefed the ladies to the fact that they were on their way.

“This is the first of the _official_ Christmas parties,”

Lady Brightlea said, leaning into Charlotte, giddy with excitement. 

Charlotte had found that in the three days they had spent with her, despite the woman’s affiliations, she genuinely enjoyed Lady Brightlea’s bubbly, warm disposition.  But she could not forget that the woman beside her was not only the mother of two highly ranked redcoat sons of her own, stationed further south, but was also a significant contributor to the cause of maintaining the colony as just that, whatever the cost.  It was in her interests to guard against everything Charlotte was fervently hoping would come to pass.  And Charlotte, so very entangled, despite a bit of smug pride in the knowledge that she was gathering valuable information directly under the nose of so powerful and influential a member of the peerage, yet found herself feeling slight pangs of guilt in moments when she was reminded of the woman’s hospitality and kindness towards her.

Charlotte smiled at Lady Brightlea, attempting to muster as much enthusiasm as she could summon. 

“…but this will be a quieter affair,” Lady Brightlea continued, and Charlotte was relieved that she hadn’t been expected to reply.

“No dancing tonight, just dinner. New Year’s and Epiphany are the true height of the season, in the coming weeks.” 

Charlotte resisted the urge to sigh, having been reminded of the fact that it was only December twenty first. She wouldn’t return to Setauket until at earliest the eighth of January.

 

Had Charlotte been seated on the opposite cushion beside her Great Aunt Catharine, she would have noted the glow emanating from an open door up ahead as guests were ushered inside, and the lanterns placed on the steps leading up to the gaily-lit front entrance of the stately home. As it was, she noticed they had slowed considerably, and were being maneuvered into place against the curb, presumably behind several carriages also halting to disembark dinner guests.

 

When their turn to descend had arisen, Charlotte waited until the two older women had exited the carriage, and then rose herself, one gloved hand taking that which was once again offered by the footman, the other pressing her gloved palm against the ruffled pattern of silk on her stomacher. She gazed up at the house before her, as light flakes of snow cycloned around her in a gust of wind, glowing candles flickering in each window, garlands mounted to select places on the trim.

 

For a lone patriot in a sea of red-coated officers and silk clad loyalists, introductions were a whirlwind.  Charlotte was paraded around a room filled with York City Brits already at least vaguely familiar with one another, who met her with outward kindness, but, she suspected, at least in the case of some, inward suspicion. Unlike York City and Setauket, which were overwhelmingly Loyalist, and like the Boston her father had hailed from, her home, Virginia, was known to cradle a healthy coven of Patriots. She hoped she wouldn’t be immediately recognized as one of them. 

In conference with Sukey, Charlotte had admitted knowledge that she could neither continue to uphold this façade nor continue to play in this charade forever.  Eventually, by her own action, or as a result of another’s discovery of her affiliation, she would be exposed.  She only hoped her fine imported silk and relative charm, forced as it was in these situations, might serve to keep the wolves off her scent for as long as was feasibly possible. 

Her utlitiy to Captain Tallmadge had become a genuinely motivating notion.  When otherwise she may have simply endured these visits with bridled contempt and fluctuating misery, she now felt invigorated by the notion that even without her brothers she could remain connected to and affective for the cause, and in such a potentially important way.  

Introductions to both Colonel William Harcourt and Sir Banastre Tarleton, who were both on brief furlough to the city, further solidified Charlotte’s confidence that she might yet prove an important member of Captain Tallmadge’s spy ring.  Here it was, her first official dinner, and already she was encountering officers of influence.

 

By the sixth course, Charlotte had begun to feel confident that she had survived being interrogated, at least for the evening. Sir Tarleton and Colonel Harcourt commanded much of the attention around the dinner table, for which Charlotte was tremendously grateful.  Polite questions posed to her were of a relatively benign nature, and she felt comfortable answering them with confidence, devoid of the anxiety and resulting hostility she often experienced when suspecting another’s kindness might be masking a challenge. 

As the servants of the household busied themselves clearing the table of dinner service, briefly exposing the stark white tablecloth so crumbs could be scraped away and dessert service laid out, Charlotte discreetly caught the attention of their hostess and asked if she might be briefly excused for a bit of air.  She felt it appropriate, given that a few of the gentlemen were stretching their legs in a small sitting room off the dining area, in the lull between servings. She would not be the only person missing from the table. With the lady’s blessing, Charlotte rose, causing the rest of the gentlemen still seated at the table to do the same.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly, with a nod and a demure smile to the rest of the guests. 

She maneuvered around the table to make her way out to the main hallway through which they had arrived.  Intending to head in the direction of the front entrance, she happened to glance over and notice through the open swinging door of a prep kitchen down a small hallway that a servants’ service entrance lead out to the street. She ducked into this little hallway, darting through the prep kitchen door and hurrying out the propped open exit before anyone could catch sight of her and ask where she was going. Thankfully, she seemed to have snuck through unnoticed. 

She emerged to realize she was at the back of the house, standing on a small stone landing with an attached wooden staircase. Stepping down onto a roughly cobblestoned yard enclosed by a brick fence, Charlotte noticed an open gate leading out to the street, and thinking she must be in a relatively safe place, she ducked out around the wrought iron rungs, and hastily made her way down the quiet street. The snow was no longer falling. She hadn’t realized how dreadfully hot it had been in the house, with lanterns and candles brightly burning, and a fire roaring in the enormous fireplace.  Walking quickly, and with decided awareness of her surroundings lest the judgment of a limited amount of danger, as she had judged it to be in this part of the city, be incorrect, Charlotte made her way in the direction of the sounds of the nearby waterfront.  As she walked, she peeled off her gloves, which she tucked discreetly under her top robe into the band of her petticoat.  Walking only a short distance, she found herself by a dock.  Finding the surrounding area deserted, she took a set of rickety wooden stairs she noticed beside the dock’s origins, descending onto the beach below.  Careful in her Louis heels not to step into wet sand and cover them in a greyish, muddy paste, Charlotte looked around her once more, out at the water, and hesitantly slipped out of her shoes, pushing against the lip of the stairs so the shoes would drop neatly onto the second step, where she could carefully step into them once more. Had she stepped out of them onto the sand, she’d be lost to find them, or even to bend over and collect them in her cumbersome gown and the dark of the evening, despite the glow of the street lamps in the streets above. 

Charlotte hurried to the water’s edge, stuffing her hand down underneath her top robe and into the slit of her top petticoat, until she could reach into the little pockets Sukey had tied onto her. She felt around until the little red disk was in her hand.  As the tide rushed over her stockinged feet, soaking the immaculate fine silk, Charlotte relished the feeling of the brackish water on her skin, and was glad that her dress was several inches from the ground.  She should have been cold, her toes should have been freezing. But she was invigorated, and inspired. She pulled the wax from its safe place in her pocket, gently running her fingertip over the little carved star she had managed to preserve when she broke the seal apart from its mount at the back of the letter Benjamin Tallmadge had sent her.  The letter had gone into the tall boy, hidden away. The seal Charlotte had kept on her person, a talisman.  Her protection, her salvation.  As another, larger wave forced a deluge of refreshing, cool water over her feet, she wriggled her toes in the muddy sand through their silken confines, and closed her eyes. She stood there, the winter wind whipping stray curls across her neck and about her face in the darkness, and as she squeezed the little seal in her hand, she whispered “Captain,” an incantation she often uttered in the darkness, wondering where he might be, and how long she would have to wait, tortured, until she could see him again.


	14. Chapter 14

There were moments, fleeting, in the dream, in which Benjamin Tallmadge knew he was dreaming.  He knew that his father’s church was no longer his church, that it sat hundreds of yards from the water’s edge, at the top of a hill with the town of Setauket below, and not at the shore.  But he could hear the rush of waves crashing against the rocks of its foundation, as though it alone existed, a tiny islet on the endless sea. 

He heard the wind howling against the windows, though the calm of the sky and brightness of the sun outside the glass panes bespoke no coming storm. Reverend Tallmadge, when Ben could see his father, was smiling.  But he saw him only in soft flashes of color, so clear, appearing and disappearing, darting in and out with the flickering sunlight cast on the smooth wooden church floor. But Reverend Tallmadge did not speak. Ben heard the sounds of light commotion, shuffling and creaking of boards and pews, as though the church were filled with worshipers, but then found himself standing alone each time he turned to seek out a familiar face behind or beside him. 

He was acutely aware of his waistcoat and overcoat, bright buff and blue, immaculate, like the day they were issued.  He stood with pride here, in his dragoon’s uniform, in their church. He saw a flash of color outside, and strode to the window just in time as Caleb, Samuel, and Selah hurried past the church windows, Caleb’s teasing lilt echoing outside as he called something unintelligible to the other two.  In that instant the scene had changed, and the familiar open meadow beside the church was restored once more.  On the opposite side, the sea yet beat unmercifully against the stone.

 

In this moment he again knew it as a dream, but from so tranquil a place in his heart the memory hailed, it felt more real than the canvas cot upon which he slept. He moved to the door, not feeling his own feet as they met the floor, hearing no footfalls, and the door opened before him.  He stepped out not onto the familiar wooden stairs, ones which he’d climbed thousands of times since his childhood, which lead up to the church door, but onto a promontory of rocks upon which the lonely building now stood.  He rapidly picked his way with great fluidity, although almost floating, through the rocks of varying size and, down to the shore below, his black boots shining with polish.  And then his feet sunk.  Into grey, mucky sand sodden with the incoming tide.  His eyes scanned along the beach, searching.  All trace of his brother and friends had disappeared. 

He noticed then the delicate footprints in the sand beside his boots, tracing their way in a gently winding line down the beach.

 

And then in an instant he blinked and he was plunged into the water, startled, frigid and gasping for breath as air was knocked out of him, tossed about by the surprisingly rough sea.  And he was pulled under.  For a moment, all was quiet, and in the dream, Ben wasn’t alarmed by the fact he couldn’t breathe.  He didn’t notice. Beneath the surface, the sea was calm, tranquil, and there seemed no need for air.  A great shape was moving through the water before him, and despite the darkness of the night above the water, it was bright below, the color of blue ashes, as the massive, dark shape came into view.  Leviathan.  The great, blocky head of a sperm whale, rolling through the water ahead of its gigantic body, its wrinkled eye peering timidly at him.  White scars marred the area about its face, interrupting the soft mossy charcoal color of the skin.  There was none of the danger and panic he imagined he would have felt if he had known he would find himself in the water beside such a giant.  The animal seemed gentle and mellow, drifting peacefully through the water.  Suddenly, he somehow managed to pull himself to the surface, unaware that he had been trying to swim. He blinked his eyes and noticed that the whale had surfaced as well, drifting serenely on the surface. And there she was, in front of it. Charlotte, her lily white palms pressed gently against the whale’s massive head, cradling it gently. She turned and smiled at Ben, and then pressed her pretty pale forehead to the whale’s scarred brow, between her hands, closing her eyes, as though she were listening. Ben watched, mesmerized. And then his attention turned to a whaleboat that slid fluidly over the waves, and Ben saw Caleb’s face illuminated in the light of a lamp attached to a post at the bow, his friend at the helm. Charlotte and the whale were gone, disappeared beneath the surface.  The boat was suddenly above him, and Caleb was leaning over the side swiftly reaching down into the water, pulling his friend up with a strong hand, chiding, “Time to come out of the water, tall boy.”  When he should have tumbled into the whaleboat, he felt instead the softness of pulpous sand of the beach under his boots once more.

 

And in the dim light of a weak overhead moon, as his eyes adjusted and he scanned the beach, he caught a glimpse of a shape, soft and elegant against the sand, a billowing pile of fabric blown about by the sea air.  And then he ran, jogged to the ivory toile, cream with periwinkle blue patterns of flowers, knowing who lay there.  He stopped, breathing hard, looking down at her pretty, serene face, relieved, finally, to be with her.  Her hair was fanned out around her face, in long luxuriant waves, wild and unbridled, and though the tide lapped at her silk stockings, soaking her hem with a variance of surges, most of her dress was dry. He was suddenly once more aware that he must be asleep. 

And in an instant he had forgotten once more.  He turned his attention to the object of his desire, his yearning, his dream. Not only was the sea leaving Charlotte’s robe francaise surprisingly dry despite the way the water washed over her, but her pale skin seemed to glow with its own inner light, bright against the midnight, moonless sky, and Ben’s eyes fell on the shadows in her collarbones and neck, exposed in her deep square neckline.  He would not have been ready to admit to himself the regularity with which he imagined Charlotte at his disposal, more vulnerable than this, supple and trembling beneath him, yielding.  Not even now, in his own reverie.  And though the situation would be bizarre and untoward under any other circumstance, Ben felt the fluidity and ease with which he knelt beside her as it happened and it seemed the most natural action for him to have taken. Formality had disappeared, in favor of intimacy, as though they had shared it all along. He turned on his side, resting on his hip, propped up on his elbow to lean down and look at her, as though he had done so a thousand times, before he knew what he himself was intending to do. And with a gentle hand, he reached out and stroked his fingers down the left side of her neck, and her eyes closed as her chest, prominently positioned in her stays, rose and fell with her now labored breathing. 

Her eyes opened and fell upon his, as she turned her head slightly to look up at him. Her face, every feature, was exactly as he had memorized in their first meeting, her round brown eyes seeking refuge in his vivid blue.  Freckles dotted her cheeks and nose, and as her pretty mouth parted, he resisted the urge to press his lips hungrily to hers, knowing somehow that she was about to speak.

“Captain,” she whimpered, “stay with me,” she whispered. 

Even now, in his own dream, his loyalty tugged at his heart, and he knew that he could not. In a panic he noticed that the rising waves were slowly devouring Charlotte’s silken stockinged feet, and  that she was somehow becoming part of the sea, being pulled out with the tide.  He was reminded again of the danger, of the real possibility of losing her, in all the possible ways that manifest in war.  He could only hope to have her if he made it back to her, he knew. Only if he became the man, the officer, he so desperately aspired to be, though he felt certain it meant violence, misery and gore.  Though it meant the stinging ache of wrenching his heart from his chest as he pulled away from her. He would rush back into the fray, to duty, to anchor her to the place she loved once he’d made it their own. But first…

 

He turned, and slipped his left arm beneath her back, his right arm coasting down to where her ribs would be if they weren’t bound by stays.  The tide surged, and water rushed over them both. As he tried to hold her, to bury his strong jaw in her delicate neck, she began to slip through his hands, her dress and her skin retaining their color, but the texture like sodden sand. And as she began to disappear, he heard her whisper “Send them back across the ocean.” 

 

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

 

With a gasp, Ben sat up on his cot, pulling chilly early morning air into his lungs. As he exhaled, he could see the frost from his breath, and he sighed, running his hands back through the strands of hair that had come loose from from his braid and fallen into his face in his fitful sleep.  Realizing it was still yet dark outside the flaps of his tent, and that the camp yet rested, he lay back down, crossing his arms back behind his head, beneath his pillow. Seeking with his fingertips, he felt the familiar silk of Charlotte’s scarf, which he always kept within reach, folding it now beneath his waistcoat each time he donned his overcoat, and retaining it beneath his pillow as he slept.  A constant comfort.  He worried his thumb over one of the stitched stars, and closed his eyes again, picturing the constellation of freckles that dappled Charlotte’s pale cheeks, and the wide brown eyes he could gladly sink into, never to surface.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

The echo of Charlotte’s Louis heels as she carefully rounded the railing at the bottom of the carpeted stairs and navigated her way down Lady Brightlea’s front hallway was a hollow sound as she made her way to breakfast. As she neared the informal dining room, she could hear the muted voices of her great aunt and their hostess, and she quickened her pace, glancing up at a grandfather clock as she passed by to note that she indeed was on time for breakfast, and that it was not yet half eight. She reached the door, and with a soft sigh, smoothed her stomacher self-consciously and turned the knob on the pin lock.  Stepping into the pleasing light morning light offered by the floor to ceiling sash windows, Charlotte smiled at the two older ladies seated in council beside one another, closing the door as quietly as she could manage behind her.

“Ah!” Lady Brightlea exclaimed, looking genuinely pleased to see her. “Good morning, Charlotte!”

Despite her loyalties to the crown, Charlotte could not help but like the bubbly aristocrat, whose emotions always seemed so transparent and genuine.

She curtseyed, informally, in greeting.

“Good morning Lady Brightlea, Aunt Catharine.  Please forgive me if I’ve kept you waiting.”

“Not at all, child, you’re just in time.” Lady Brightlea said. She gestured to the seat beside her. “Please, sit.”

Charlotte took her place opposite Catharine, beside Lady Brightlea, seated at the head of the table.

 

Pleasant conversation resumed, and Charlotte selected from the various breakfast offerings as they were brought around to her, last, in order of deference, whispering a quiet “Thank You” to a female slave who snuck her a twitch of the corners of her mouth in appreciation of her expression of gratitude as Charlotte took a pastry from the silver serving tray she held.  As the two older women resumed their conference, Charlotte broke her fast, beginning with her piping hot chocolate. When the discussion had dissolved into a natural lull, the glance between the two older women that accompanied the quiet did not go unnoticed by Charlotte.

 

An authoritative, resounding directive of “Leave us,” left Lady Brightlea’s lips, echoing sharply throughout the high ceilinged room, and the servants waiting against the walls departed promptly with curtseys and bows to their mistress.

 

Charlotte waited, anxious, as they made their nearly silent exit, her eye catching on a glint of sparkling sunlight reflecting off a grand, spare silver tea service sitting on a sideboard.  The frivolity of such fine things, and such a clear excess of such, struck her as slightly grotesque.

 

Lady Brightlea placed a chubby, diamond crusted hand on the immaculate white tablecloth beside Charlotte’s plate, catching the young girl’s attention. She spoke gently, leaning in and searching Charlotte’s face with sparkling eyes.

“Charlotte, may I speak with you on a subject that is rather….delicate?”

 

Charlotte nodded, with a serene, close-mouthed smile, but her heart pounded beneath her stays and she felt a cold chill rush through her chest. “Of course.”

 

She put down her spoon and placed her hands folded across one another atop the napkin in her lap, turning to Lady Brightlea to give her full attention.

 

“I understand,” Lady Brightlea began, looking from Charlotte to Catharine to the tablecloth, choosing her words carefully. “That you have yet to make your debut.”

 

Charlotte nodded once more, hoping the color had not drained from her face as she heard the words leaving the older woman’s mouth.

 

“…which is only appropriate, given the lengthy search for your parents at sea, and as such, your extended mourning period.” 

 

Charlotte was only slightly comforted by the gentleness with which the woman spoke to her, her manner seeming genuinely empathetic.  Catharine smiled as she continued “…and a young lady’s brothers are not often as…enthusiastic about such customs, or as versed in the particulars surrounding a coming out.”  Lady Brightlea chuckled, “I know.  My sons are young men themselves, and I have brothers myself.”

 

She continued, a budding excitement rising in her demeanor. Charlotte could almost see the woman wiggling in her seat.

“And we thought, perhaps, with your consent…and that of your elder brother, we might host for you an entrée here in New York City!” 

Her hands had raised from the table with excitement gradually, in increments as she unveiled her plot, until the fine white lace extending through her silken sleeves was hovering dangerously close to her poached eggs as she presented her idea with enthusiastically raised palms.

 

“Oh,” Charlotte began.  “Well, I-I…” she paused, stumbling, her mouth parted in bewilderment and disbelief.

 

Postponing her marriageable eligibility had protected her thus far, much as everything about her life in Virginia had.  Compelled to do so after signing the exclusivity contract with the Continental Army for their plantation’s tobacco and hemp, her eldest brother, now their patriarch, could no longer hide that his allegiances were his father’s own, and it was then he had sent her away.  William had sent her to Long Island to protect her, but he had sent her into the lions’ den.

 

Benjamin Tallmadge’s face flashed before her eyes, specifically his warm, bashful smile, just for her, when she had declared, _“Give me liberty or give me death,”_ at their first meeting. While she was unable to be close to him, at least no one else had thus far had an opportunity to do so.  That situation could change quite rapidly.  She was terrified.

 

Lady Brightlea perked up, wishing to diffuse the situation when she realized she had overwhelmed the girl with her suggestion.  She batted her hand dismissively to show Charlotte it was of little concern. 

 

“Come, child, you needn’t worry!”  She reached out, comforting, and took Charlotte’s left hand from her lap, cradling it in her right, palm to palm, and patting the back of the girl’s hand reassuringly with the palm of her left.  Her hands were cold.

 

“No need to answer now!  It was only a musing we had.  You’ve plenty of time, yet. And we wouldn’t think of it before the spring season at any rate.”

 

The aristocrat noticed the relief that passed over Charlotte’s face as she squeezed Lady Brightlea’s hand instinctively. 

 

Dryly, Catharine sipped her tea and looked at her cohort “Emmaline, I would be most grateful if you would desist in terrifying my great niece.” Then she smiled at Charlotte reassuringly, who was finally able to take a breath, and laughed to show she was only teasing her friend.

 

Lady Brightlea wrinkled her nose and batted her hand again at Catharine. “You must forgive us, Charlotte. Old ladies are constantly searching for ways to entertain ourselves.” 

 

Charlotte laughed.  “Well, if I happen to make the acquaintance of any old ladies, I shall certainly offer them forgiveness should the need arise, but it needn’t be solicited from me in _this_ company.”

 

Lady Brightlea put her hand to her chest and tipped her head to Charlotte, giving her a gentle smile, which she then turned to Catharine. “She’s _charming_. May I keep her?”

 

Catharine resurrected her feigned sour demeanor “Certainly _not_.”  She smiled a hidden smile at Charlotte, sipping tea once more.

 

Lady Brightlea changed the topic.  “Charlotte, we haven’t any engagements until this evening’s dinner with General Weir” she turned to Catharine to clarify “Daniel Weir,” and back to Charlotte “and his wife.  What did you have planned for the day, dear?”

 

Charlotte was happy to distract both the ladies and herself, beginning to stir her porridge in preparation to begin eating again.  She hoped the hot cereal would help to calm her still churning stomach. “Well, I was hoping to play your pianoforte if it would be permissible, and afterward I thought I might take a short walk to the harbor?  If it would be appropriate.  I’ve heard so much about the majesty of the British navy, I thought I’d see her fleet for myself.” _And take note of everything I see there to share with a certain blue eyed Captain from Yale._ Not a lie. Just an omission.

 

“Of course, dear!  If you’d prefer to wait, I’m sure I can arrange for an officer to escort you and show you about.” Lady Brightlea nodded encouragingly, raising her eyebrows and Charlotte realized that despite the fact she had been allowed a reprieve from the topic of her availability to eligible bachelors, it certainly wasn’t far from the Lady’s mind. 

 

Charlotte thought for a moment.  “I shouldn’t like to inconvenience anyone.  I could take young Mr. Nesbitt along with me to be my guide, if he is not otherwise required for more pertinent tasks.  No need to recruit anyone simply for my amusement.”  She smiled, taking a bit of her pastry and lifting it demurely to her mouth. 

 

Lady Brightlea sipped her tea.  “’Twould be no inconvenience, Charlotte, but very well, go along with the boy. And bring your…” she looked at Catharine “…Sukey.  Lovely girl.”

 

Catharine shot Emmaline a look.  Charlotte hadn’t noticed.  She was satisfied by the small victory of being able to go to the harbor without having to feign politeness.

  
Charlotte passed the remainder of breakfast in quiet, excusing herself when her plate was cleared and the ladies rose to retire to the ladies’ parlour, to fetch her sheet music.  When she had reached the other side of the door, more quickly than the elderly ladies, she did her best not to break into a dead run.  Instead she hustled along the hallway and plowed up the stairs in quite undignified a manner, thankful there were no servants or residents present to see her do so.

 

Sukey was folding laundry on a bench at the foot of Charlotte’s bed when the girl came bursting through the door, whirling around immediately in a dramatic typhoon of fabric to close it behind her and turn her attention to her closest companion.

 

“They mean to turn me out!” Charlotte exclaimed, hissing in a disbelieving whisper.

 

The older girl sighed at the younger’s naïveté, letting the petticoat she’d been folding hang limply in her hands in defeat.

“What you expect?  Pretty thing like you, and they with no daughters of their own.” 

 

Sukey chided, her heart strings tugged by the sickening little whimper that escaped from Charlotte’s throat as her charge paced back and forth, right hand against her forehead, left against her peach silk stomacher, as though to hold herself together, or anchor herself to the ground.  Sukey cast the petticoat to the side and sat on the bench.

 

“I don’t want to be their dancing bear, paraded around like chattel to these…these…” she lowered her voice even more, spitting the word “Royalists” from her mouth as though it were a vile poison.  “I want…I want…Ben.”  She dropped her hands to her sides and gave Sukey a horribly pathetic, lost look.

 

“Come,” Sukey said, reaching out, and Charlotte went swiftly to her confidant’s arms. She ignored the fact that Charlotte had only seen the Captain once.  Sometimes once was enough, she’d learned.  She had resigned herself to the fact that Charlotte’s fixation was firmly affixed. And, confident that the affection was reciprocated on Benjamin’s part, she decided there was no need to address the issue.

 

Charlotte leaned into Sukey, resting her head on the other’s chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her abdomen, as though she were afraid she’d float away if she didn’t hold on.  There she cried frustrated tears, soothed by the familiar scent as she breathed Sukey in.

 

“Oh, my baby.”  Sukey sighed, in frustration and helplessness.  Ever since Charlotte had been taken from her mother’s exhausted embrace and placed in the care of then fourteen-year-old Sukey, she had treated Charlotte much like her own. She stroked soothingly at her auburn hair.  “It’s gon be all right. It’s _all_ gon’ be all right. 


	16. Chapter 16

Sukey held Charlotte’s hair back, twisted gently at the nape of her neck as the younger girl took a deep breath and splashed frigid water on her face from the porcelain basin in her bedroom’s washstand.  She shuddered, wriggling about on the balls of her feet in her pointed shoes as she raised a clean cotton cloth to her neck, patting the icy droplets off her skin.  She turned over her shoulder to look at Sukey, smiling sheepishly, and the older girl released her hair, smoothing it down over her shoulders.

“Better?” Sukey asked.

“Yes,” Charlotte said.  “Thank you.”

Sukey had allowed Charlotte a brief period for distressed tears, as she knew it was often helpful in diffusing some of the tension mounted by the constantly bridled emotion the girl daily suppressed, but she was not one to tolerate excessive self pity.  Sukey could not have known that Charlotte’s vexation over being reminded of her marriageable position was confounded by a flooding resurgence of emotion at the mention of her parents, however innocently intentioned, by Lady Brightlea. Charlotte had adored her father, had been weaned on his patriotism, and as much as her mother’s preoccupation with aspirations toward the epitome of femininity, grace, and propriety had frustrated and irritated the free spirited young Charlotte, she had been completely devoted to her beautiful mother.  In perspective, relative to the plights of others, Sukey was acutely aware of Charlotte’s good fortune, especially during a time of war, as well as, by extension, her own.  And Charlotte, despite often overwhelming self-doubt, was tremendously resilient, no small credit to Sukey herself.

Charlotte turned slightly to look at herself in the small tabletop mirror on the desk in her bedroom, making certain no evidence of her dejection was yet evident on her face.

Behind her, Sukey’s own serene face was reflected in the glass as the older girl smoothed Charlotte’s silken hair again, soothingly.

“You weren’t ever going to get to hide in a tobacco field for the rest of your life, Charlotte.”  She told her. “Don’t you go blaming Miss Catharine for that.” 

Charlotte nodded.  She turned around to face Sukey and took both of her hands in hers, stroking her knuckles with the pads of her thumbs.  Charlotte’s enormous brown eyes flickered back and forth, reflecting refractions of light as she searched Sukey’s, so very similar to her own, and so familiar.

“Please don’t ever leave me,” she implored.

Sukey sighed.  “Where’m I gonna go, Charlotte?”  She asked.

But she noticed the earnest, yearning look had not disappeared from the younger girl’s face.  She dropped Charlotte’s left hand, keeping her right and clasping both hands around it. “My life always has been where you are.”

“I’m so frightened,” Charlotte admitted, dismayed.  “But I’m more afraid of the shame that would accompany my own inaction than any fate that could befall me as a….a…” Charlotte paused.

Sukey smiled, despite herself, and then cleared her face of expression, tilting her head sideways to communicate her sincerity and suggest to Charlotte a kind of disgruntled irritation. “Don’t say spy.”

Charlotte smiled, looking down at her feet bashfully. “Why not? It’s true.”

Sukey shook her head, as though to cast the notion away entirely “I’d thank you not to remind me.”

Charlotte leaned forward and kissed Sukey on her cheek, turning to go and open one of her trunks.  She crouched as best she could in her cumbersome panniers, leafing through her possessions until she found a leather folio.  Closing the lid, she clutched it to her chest and rose to her feet.

“When you have finished, you’ll come and walk with me, to the harbor?” She asked Sukey, who had resumed her folding.

“Yes, Charlotte.” She said, dutifully. 

“If we see a ship we like, do you think they’d notice if we pirate it away?” Charlotte asked, grinning and full of mischief.

“Yes, I think they would,” Sukey said, laughing in spite of herself. “Where’ve you got a mind to go?”

Charlotte lingered a moment and thought to herself, estimating where she thought the 2nd Light Dragoons might be at that very moment.  “New Jersey?” She asked, wiggling her eyebrows at the older girl.

“Lord help us,” Sukey laughed, shaking her head.

Charlotte smiled again, but Sukey, dividing her attention between her charge and her work, noticed how quickly it faded from her face. Charlotte took as deep a breath as she could manage in her baleen stays, and exited the room, making every effort to appear as collected and unburdened as a girl without worry might be.

Melodic chatter could be heard from the ladies’ parlor as Charlotte descended the stairs and stepped once more down onto the lacquered wooden floor of the great hallway.  Hugging her folio protectively to her person with arms across her chest, she began in the direction of the back parlor, where she had played the pianoforte on two afternoons when she had enjoyed a bit of leisure time.  

Lady Brightlea caught her attention before she had gone far, hailing politely through the open doors of the parlor. 

“Charlotte!” She called.  The younger altered her course to stand in the casement “There is another in the front salon.   Better light, in the morning.”

Charlotte smiled.  “Thank you.”

She scolded herself for being surprised there were two pianofortes in the home.  Turning left at the end of the hallway by the front door, she stepped into the brightly lit room, with ceilings reaching towards the heavens, and noted with pleasure that the pianoforte sat directly beside a set of floor to ceiling sash windows much like those in the informal dining room.  It was thus flooded with light.  The pianoforte faced away from the doorway, towards a beautiful, ornate fireplace, and silken cushioned furniture.  She placed her folio on the music rack, and carefully maneuvered around the bench, adjusting her garments so she could sit comfortably. She opened the folio and leafed through the pages, finding a piece for which she held a particular fondness, the Adagio from Mozart’s Sonata for Piano Number 2 in F Major, K. 280. Leaving it open in front of her, lest she need to refer to it, she first played a series of exercises she enjoyed, meant to acclimate her fingers once more to the ease of the instrument.

The carriage which arrived outside Lady Brightlea’s home was not expected, but was certainly not unwelcome.  Certainly not with the particular gentleman conveyed therein.  Major John Andre looked up at the stately house with a sigh as his driver halted the horses pulling his open carriage. He hoped his visit would be brief. He was en route to business concerning far more important matters, but one so vehement and financially significant a supporter of the Crown’s continued dominance over it’s colony was to be humored as far as was possible.  Lady Brightlea’s Christmas ball was certain to be one of the crowning social events of the season in York City, and she had asked Major Andre to prepare for her, in his spare time, a list of officers.  So fresh in the colonies were so many of rank and influence, Lady Brightlea had not been confident she would be certain to include all those of merit. The fete was highly anticipated, anticipation amplified by the fact that the date was rapidly approaching and invitations had as yet not been issued.  Such was her privilege as a woman of rank in the city.  Lady Brightlea’s doorman, smartly dressed in an immaculate powdered wig, opened the door to the hall, bowing in deference as Major Andre descended the carriage and swiftly mounted the stone steps to the doorway. He could hear a piano playing through the open doorway.  Stopping to allow the doorman to take his cloak and hat, John’s ears perked as he heard more clearly the familiar sounds of a Mozart Adagio on a piano in the first room to the right.  Turning about to see who the pianist might be, he stood in the hallway, looking through the open doorway, his eye falling on a cascade of long, lustrous reddish brown hair, brushed slightly aside to reveal a pale, delicate neck.  He wasn’t certain which to admire more, the skill and genuine expression evident in the playing, or the form of its player.

Charlotte, true to expectation, ignored the newly arrived guest and continued playing, having not ever been introduced, and he having neither been announced to her.

A female servant, doing her best not to stare too intently into the Major’s comely face, curtseyed and addressed him carefully “This way, if you please, Major.  Lady Brightlea will receive you in the parlor.” 

With a lingering glance, and sudden recognition of the girl he’d seen walking from the marketplace with an armful of goods a few days previous, John reluctantly made his way along the hallway to the dowager’s parlor.

Charlotte could hear her hostess’ voice rise in delighted surprise in the next room. “Ah, John!”

 _John?_ Charlotte thought, alarmed by her seeming familiarity.  Had not the servant addressed him as Major?

Sukey was quick to intervene, hearing the clatter of carriage wheels outside, and feeling an acute pang of protective instinct in her stomach. Her laundry could wait until later. She left Charlotte’s bedroom and descended the servants’ staircase at the back of the house and, hurrying along through the rooms opposite the side of the house in which Charlotte sat playing, crossing into the morning room at the front of the home, waited across the hallway, undetected in her quiet slippers.  Strategically, she waited a moment for tea service to enter the ladies’ parlor, hopeful it would distract the older women and their new guest long enough for Sukey to sneak Charlotte upstairs and sequester her in her room for changing into a walking habit.  If they could feign preoccupation, perhaps Sukey could postpone introductions. She darted across the hallway and tapped Charlotte gently on her shoulder. 

“Upstairs.” She instructed. “Now.”

Ordinarily, Charlotte may have protested with “But I’ve only just started playing,” but the flatness in her protector’s voice was such that she rose immediately, sneaking along the corridor and mounting six carpeted stairs before hearing her name called, accompanied by a sinking in her chest.

She paused, and turned around, descending the stairs as innocent as she might manage. 

Out of sight and unable to see those in the parlor until she reached the threshold, Charlotte finally found herself before three admiring faces, one unfamiliar, and quite bold in the gaze it held upon her.  His eyes pierced her own as he rose from his seat.

“Major Andre,” Emmaline began, “May I present Catharine Woodhull’s great niece, Charlotte Adams.” 

Charlotte curtseyed dutifully, and realized with slight alarm that the Major was approaching her. 

“Miss Adams,” he said, rather quietly.  “I am delighted.”

Charlotte bowed her head momentarily; clasping her hands together in front of her “It is my great pleasure, sir.”

John Andre smiled down at her charming little face.  Surprisingly pretty, round cheeked, wide eyed, and expressive.

“I can assure you the pleasure is entirely mine.  Might I compliment your playing?”  He asked.

Charlotte gave him a meek smile “Thank you, sir.” 

Feeling left out of the exchange, though rather excited that the Major seemed to be expressing such interest in Charlotte, unimpressed as she’d seen him with other young ladies, Lady Brightlea chimed in

“Charlotte is most eager to visit the harbor this afternoon. I surmise she was en route to prepare going there now.” 

Charlotte nodded at the Lady.  “Yes,” she said.

“Well, we shall not keep you,” Brightlea replied. 

Charlotte nodded at the ladies and curtsied one more to the Major, turning to go with a great deal more haste than she would have liked to display.

Sukey was waiting for Charlotte when she reached the top of the stairs, clutching the leather folio that she had collected from the piano. “Do you think that was intentional?” Charlotte muttered as they made their way along the upstairs hallway back to Charlotte’s bedroom.

“I’d hasten to assume, but I wouldn’t doubt.” Sukey replied, in just as low a tone.

John Andre was loathe to remain exchanging pleasantries with the pair of old birds in whose company he sat, pressing as other matters remained, but he had to admit that his curiosity was peaked.  He was not altogether disappointed that he would most likely be strategically detained until such a time as he could escort Miss Charlotte to the harbor.  

Bedecked in a cornflower blue wool walking habit and her deep blue cape and fox fur mantle, Charlotte descended the stairs, aware that the three sat in the ladies’ parlor had as yet not concluded their visit.  Sukey had gone to fetch the Nesbitt boy to accompany them.

As Charlotte waited by the door for her two companions to join her, Major Andre himself made an appearance, as a servant went to fetch his hat and cloak.

He smiled warmly at Charlotte “It…has been decided….that I should escort you to the harbor.”  As his garments were returned to him, and his cloak placed on him by the doorman, Charlotte sighed. 

“You needn’t alter your itinerary on my account.  It’s but a short walk.”

Major Andre shook his head.  “No alteration required.  I’m headed in that direction.” 

Sukey and Jonathan appeared, and the elder did her best not to narrow her eyes at the Major.  The four were ushered out the front door, a rarity for Jonathan Nesbitt, who carried himself with pride, especially now to be in the company of so celebrated a figure as Major John Andre.  Charlotte was momentarily concerned at the prospect of being invited to ride in the Major’s carriage while her compatriots would be forced to walk, but as she hung back the Major instructed his driver to rendezvous with him at another point. He led the way towards the water, the others following him like so many ducklings.

“You have an interest in ships?” Andre asked Charlotte.

“Yes,” she replied.  “In Virginia I had much occasion, especially as a child, to sail about the Chesapeake Bay.”

“You will be most impressed, then, I should think.” He remarked.

They walked in silence for a time, before it was ultimately broken by Andre’s reflection as they gazed about the harbor. 

“Ah, His Majesty’s navy.  The finest fleet in the world.  If you make yourself known to the harbormaster as my guest, he will afford you all appropriate courtesy.” His attention caught on Charlotte’s gloved wrist, and the thick section of ribbon on which was mounted a large blue oval stone, bordered by so many smaller ones, lighter in color, surrounding it.

“Such a lovely cuff,” he said.  He ventured, playfully, as was his way “Does it perhaps contain the likeness of one held in high esteem by the lady’s affections?” 

Charlotte smiled fondly, not at his kindness, but that she was reminded of what lay within.  “It does indeed!”

She reached across with her left hand and unhooked the locket clasp, opening the keepsake and turning her wrist to present it to the Major as they walked. He looked down, narrowing his eyes to see more clearly, and noticed a small, painstakingly painted profile within, the face of a handsome chestnut horse with a white blaze across his face.

“Powhatan,” she said.  “En route to me from Virginia.” 

John Andre smiled despite himself.  “A fine specimen.” 

They had reached the dock.  Their short journey was at an end. 

Major Andre spoke again “I left…along with my frivolous guest list, specific instructions with Lady Brightlea for yourself and your aunt to join me at my New Years’ Masquerade.  Though I believe we’re scheduled to meet one another at some…dinner or another beforehand.”

Charlotte curtseyed dutifully “Until such time, then.” 

John Andre nodded to the girl, with one last once over of her pleasing form, not without notice of the severe look given him by the girl’s lovely slave.

“I shall be looking forward to it.  Good day, miss.” 

Charlotte took a deep breath, finally left to herself with Sukey and young Nesbitt as the Major strode confidently away.  She sent the boy along to announce their arrival to the harbormaster, and as such was thus able to promenade about the docks in relative safety, unmolested, conscious of the echoing cry of “Lady!” from deck to deck about the ships, that no untoward behavior be displayed whilst a member of the fairer sex invaded their otherwise masculine midst. 

 Charlotte remained alert and observant.  Counting, assessing, committing to memory.  Whispering, quietly to herself, identifying type of ship, name where it could be deduced, and number of guns.  Man-of War, Sloop-of-War, Ship of the Line. Merchantmen, Packets, Privateers. At the conclusion of her visit she found she already had much to share with Benjamin, and had rendered herself much elevated in spirit. 

As the noon sun rose over New York harbor, surprisingly warm for late December, Charlotte carried out her plan to continue her reconnaissance. Having found an advantageous lookout point to sit for a time and observe the harbor, nestled beside Sukey on a bench, Charlotte turned to young Mr. Nesbitt and, taking coin from the pocket beneath her petticoat, turned her attention towards the boy.

"Mr. Nesbitt!  Do you recall an establishment we passed on our shopping excursion called Samantha’s? I cannot seem to banish that patisserie from my mind!"

The boy smiled, nodding, and she noted the endearing crookedness of his two front teeth, one slightly chipped in a corner.  

"Would you be so kind as to fetch us each a sugared bread, and one for yourself, of course?"

She held out the coins, pinched between her gloved fingers, waiting for him to extend his hand, which he did almost instantaneously, and she dropped the coins into his palm.

"'Twould be my certain pleasure, miss!" He chirped.  He had started to go, when Charlotte's voice called him back again.

"Oh!" She exclaimed. 

He stopped and focused his attention on her once more.  

"If they happen to bake a kind of sweet pastry with cheese...of any kind, would you fetch three of those for us as well?"

He grinned again and nodded, half-bowing to her and starting off towards the bustling marketplace.

 No sooner had the boy set off on his errand than Charlotte, with as much propriety as possible, reached into the slit in her petticoat to rifle in her pocket once again for the small sewn notebook she had stowed there, and a small stub of pencil.  She began making little notes to herself as she looked out at the water, committing to paper for herself what she had seen and counted.  In the midst of her working, she had not noticed that Sukey had produced for herself a similar notebook and bit of drawing charcoal.  When she had paused briefly, and looked up, she was surprised to notice the girl diligently putting implement to paper as well.

Charlotte leaned over to investigate Sukey’s undertaking with genuine curiosity.

“What are you doing?” She asked. 

She noticed, enthralled and impressed, that Sukey was sketching the ships they were looking at, with a superb accuracy only possible at the hand of a talented artist such as she.

Sukey smiled.  “Helping.” She replied.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Sukey swept carefully with a straw brush at the scattered drifts of soot and charcoal in the enormous fireplace facing Charlotte’s bed, pulling them towards her into a neat pile so she could shovel it into a tin pail for disposal. The hearth clean, she brushed her hands off on her apron and set about loading the ornate andirons with fresh logs that she could light, confident she would have a cheerful blaze roaring in the hearth before Charlotte returned.  Using a particularly effective measure she often employed, she drizzled a bit of whale oil over the logs from a storage canister used to refill the lamps in the room. She pulled out the tinder box, finding a generous nest of dried wood shavings and cast off yarn inside, and struck a bit of the flint until a clump of the tinder caught, nudging it beneath the pile of logs, into the small thicket of cedar sticks she’d assembled to help it light, watching the little flame thrive and catch in the accelerant until the logs had begun to smolder and caught fire.  Her supplies put away, she sat for a time in the high backed armchair beside the hearth, watching the blaze thrive, listening to the soothing crackle and slight hiss of steam from the logs as they heated, waiting for Charlotte. The large hand of the clock atop the mantle had just turned past the hour of midnight, and was nearing quarter past. Sukey was exhausted. She had walked a great distance that afternoon, touring around the city with her pass hanging prominently around her neck, seeking others like herself from whom she might procure a particular article for Charlotte.  At great personal risk, she had accomplished her mission, and now she allowed herself an indulgent respite until she could retire to her own chambers. She found that, as much as her charge was at risk in this port, from her perspective as a slave, Lady Brightlea’s home was a friendly place to be the servant of a guest, and she was thankful for one less potential complication that had been avoided.

 

The clack and rattle of horse hooves and carriage wheels on the cobblestones under the windows of Charlotte’s front facing bedroom alerted Sukey to her arrival. She waited patiently in the chair, listening for the sounds of the returning ladies to break the silence below, which had for the past several hours settled over the downstairs hall. With a slight smile, she identified bright notes of feminine voices, and the pounding on the carpeted stairs that could only be Charlotte’s clumsy footfalls in her Louis heels, as they grew louder with the girl’s ascension.  Charlotte had a penchant for becoming discombobulated when she was tired, and all manner of decorum was apt to have disappeared from her gait as she barreled towards her comfortable bed.  She opened the door, her head turned to the side as she called “Yes, I will. Thank you!  Goodnight!” Presumably to one or both of the elderly women.

 

Charlotte turned and grinned at Sukey as she closed the door, already beginning to pull pins, both those ornamented, intended to be seen, and those hidden beneath, of polished bone, out of her hair, haphazardly plucking at her head as she simultaneously stepped out of her Louis heels, wobbling a bit on her feet. “Hello.”

 

“You have a good time?” Sukey asked. She swept up bone pins Charlotte had taken out and set on the desk, and placed them in the little cloth sachet in which she kept them. The embellished pins would go in another box.  She reached out and removed Charlotte’s bracelet from her wrist, placing it in a jewelry box.

 

Charlotte shrugged. “It was all right. They asked me to sing, and you know how vexed it often makes me, though it went all right, I suppose. And there was cake!”

 

“You look tired,” Sukey said. 

 

“So do you. You should have gone to sleep!” Charlotte scolded.  “While I can get _un_ dressed without you, it’s the inverse which would be nearly impossible.” 

 

Charlotte shook out her hair as she waited patiently while Sukey unbuttoned her gloves, leaving Charlotte to peel them off while she went around and unhooked the heavy clasp on Charlotte’s choker, pulling Charlotte’s hair gently aside.

 

“You are always tellin’ me that.  And you also know I’m never satisfied until I’ve tucked you in bed.”

Charlotte smiled. She had already begun to carefully unfasten her stomacher from her robe a la francaise, and as Sukey took the necklace from off her neck, she caught the long, flowing garment as Charlotte carefully shrugged it off and it fell behind her. 

 

Charlotte pulled her stomacher away from her stays, and placed it on the desk in front of her, beside her gloves.  Far more organized than she, Sukey preferred Charlotte to leave her clothes where she shed them, so Sukey could store them carefully.  Charlotte went to work on her topmost petticoat, stepping out of it, and the pockets and panniers beneath, as Sukey carefully untied the first the two embroidered purse like pieces, and helped Charlotte to step out of the heavy, cage like set of panniers she’d worn that night. With a deep, relieved sigh, Charlotte was liberated from her stays as Sukey untied her at the back, loosening and lifting it off over her head.  Charlotte continued undressing, dropping layers of petticoats off of herself until she was at last in her chemise and stockings.  She bent to pick up her petticoats, happy to have the opportunity to stretch her back, and handed them to Sukey, sitting down on the bench at the end of her bed to untie the ribbons holding up her stockings, and peeling them down her legs.  Sukey approached with her nightgown, and Charlotte lifted her chemise up over her head, casting it aside to thread her hands through the sleeves and her head through the frilly neckline.  She picked up the dressing gown Sukey had laid out and slipped into it. 

 

“Lovely fire!” she said, plopping down in the armchair.  She glanced at the clock. “Ooh!  I can give you your presents!”

 

She hopped up again, waiting while Sukey collected her stockings and chemise from atop the bench so she could pull out her smaller trunk, stored underneath the bench, and reach under the bed, where she’d hidden the boxes.  In Virginia, the Christmas and Epiphany celebrations had been far more festive and rife with revelry than here in the largely Puritanical northeast, and December twentieth through the twelfth of January had been a joyous time, if nostalgic, which she had enjoyed with her brothers until now. She had decided to bring gifts back to Setauket for Abraham, Mary, little Sprout and Richard, because that was what one did when returning from a visit.  She had sent along presents to Virginia for her bothers, which William would soon receive, and her remaining brothers would be able to enjoy when….and if….they returned home.  Catharine and Lady Brightlea, however, were abstaining from exchanging gifts, as was the usual custom.  But Charlotte had always given gifts to Sukey.  She pulled a long, rectangular box, and a smaller, square box, both tied with matching ribbon, from the underneath the bed, and returned to her chair, waiting somewhat impatiently, sitting with her legs tucked up beneath her, bouncing her knees a bit under the billowing fabric in excited impatience. Sukey finished folding and organizing and came to sit across from her charge, in the armchair opposite the one Charlotte occupied. 

She let out a satisfied breath, sitting down. 

“All right-Oh!” She rose, to Charlotte’s dismay, and went into one of Charlotte’s larger trunks, Carefully opening the lid so that she could see its bottom, she slid out a secret drawer used for storage that had allowed her to nestle something in the lid.  It was a small bundle, wrapped in paper and string, which she tucked against her chest, taking her shawl off her shoulders to hold in front of the package, concealing it.  She came to sit beside Charlotte in the other chair once more. 

 

Charlotte stood and placed the packages in Sukey’s lap, smiling, watching, enthralled, as the older girl untied the ribbon and lifted the box off the first package. Sukey parted the paper in which the garment was carefully packed, and lifted a beautiful, soft, thickly woven silk scarf with just the slightest hint of sheen, in a beautiful rose color, up in the firelight to examine it. 

“Oh, Charlotte,” Sukey said, stroking the fabric lightly with her fingertips. “It’s beautiful.”

Charlotte smiled, bouncing excitedly again. 

“Go on, there’s another!”  She reached out her hands when Sukey looked around, at a loss for where to place the first box. Sitting with the scarf on her lap, Charlotte watched Sukey untie the second ribbon on the surprisingly heavy box. Sukey gasped as she unfolded the delicate, tinted paper.  In the box, with a beautiful hooked fastener facing her, lay a beautiful, violet, heavy woolen cape with a hood, lined with charcoal silk. 

“It is much colder here than in Virginia.” Charlotte began “And your other cape seemed…inadequate.”

“Charlotte, this is….it’s too much.”

Charlotte shook her head.  “Not nearly enough. And it isn’t just from me. You know that.” She said, smiling with a slight hint of gloom.  Then she perked up. “But do you like it?”

Sukey rose to her feet, unfurling the cape, and putting it around her.  “Like it?  It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever owned.  And the scarf…they’ll look quite lovely together, I think!”

“I thought so, too!” Charlotte said, smiling. She stood, taking up the scarf, and helped Sukey right the cape across her shoulders so it draped correctly over her. Then she carefully wound the scarf around her neck, admiring her from over her shoulder.  Sukey had turned to examine herself in the little mirror on the desk, and was taking in the colors and weight of the fabrics. Then she remembered, and gave Charlotte a playful smile. 

 

“Against my better judgment, in the particular case of _this_ item….I’ve got something for you, too.”  She pointed.  “In my shawl.”

 

Charlotte darted over to the chair and picked up the bundle, carefully feeling around with excited, quizzical glances at Sukey as she felt the hard corners of a small rectangular package.  She unfurled the soft cotton, and found the thin, paper and string packed rectangular item, and her heart quickened.  She sat down in her chair to carefully open it.  It could only be one of a very few things. 

 

“Sukey….” she started, untying the string with trembling hands.  Sukey was calm, almost ignoring Charlotte, worrying her fingers at the silver clasp on her cape as she looked in the mirror.

Once the string had been liberated, and cast into the fire, Charlotte unfolded the paper and yet out a little delighted yelp. 

Printed across the cover of the freshly printed book were the words:

_The American Crisis_

_Number I_

By the Author of _Common Sense_

Charlotte leapt from her seat in her excitement, the wrapping fluttering to the floor, clutching the pamphlet in her hands, her mouth open in disbelief, eyes wide and glittering in the firelight.

“Sukey, _where_ did you get this?  _How_ did you get this? It was only just written!”

“When you gave me my pass last evening, I took a walk.” 

“Sukey…” Charlotte began, her shoulders sinking, her already porcelain face further draining of color as the enormity of the risk her companion had taken settled in Charlotte’s stomach. 

“I am….beyond grateful, but what if you had been _caught_?”

Sukey shook her head. “Nothing is certain now. It’s a risk to do…anything we do. And I wanted you to have it. I met some free negroes, and they sold it to me.”

 

Charlotte smoothed her palm slowly over the slightly raised ink on the newly printed page, then went back over the cover, with her individual fingertips, brushing gently over each line, treasuring each letter.  She looked up at Sukey with a mischievous, excited grin.  “Shall we read it?” 

 

Sukey nodded, and Charlotte ran excitedly towards her bed, stepping first onto her smaller trunk, which she’d left pulled out, then onto the bench, and onto the bed, plopping down in an excited puff of silk and cotton.  She tapped the bed beside her.  Sukey laughed, and picked up the oil lamp on the desk, bringing it over to the nightstand opposite the one Charlotte used, which had a candle burning in a single candle holder sitting upon it.  She shooed Charlotte away from the pillows, so she could pull aside the bedcovers she had turned down.  Charlotte took off her dressing gown and draped it across the bench, then settled herself between the cool bedcovers.  Sukey would only use her bed warmer occasionally, knowing Charlotte generally preferred to be cooler while sleeping.  Charlotte patted the bed emphatically, and Sukey took off her cape and scarf, settling down beside Charlotte and draping them over her. 

 

Charlotte made herself comfortable, resting on her side, facing Sukey and the glowing lamp, and, with a deep breath to calm herself, began to read, her eyes darting excitedly over the page, reminding herself she could read it over many times and that she should treasure each letter….

 

“These are the times that try men’s souls…." 

At three in the morning, Sukey awoke, alarmed, laying underneath her beautiful new cape, realizing she had fallen asleep on her side, facing Charlotte, much as she had when they were younger, the room dark but for the glow of lamps from the street below and the smoldering of coals in the hearth.  She rose carefully, tucking her gifts quietly back into their boxes and sliding the trunk soundlessly back beneath the bench.  She noticed Charlotte’s trunk was closed, and she checked the secret compartment to be sure that Charlotte had stored the pamphlet there. With a satisfied nod, noticing it was indeed within, she closed the compartment and the trunk and went around to the side of the bed, leaning over gently to pull the covers up over Charlotte’s shoulders, brushing the backs of her fingers ever so gently across Charlotte’s right cheek.  “Happy Christmas, Baby.” She whispered, as the other slept soundly.  Then she gathered her things and slipped from the room.  

 

* * *

 

 

Caleb trudged through camp in the darkness, guided by memory and the flicker of dimming campfires, whistling an old whaling tune.  The spring in his step and the jaunt in his walk could only have been the result of a day well spent with his newest companion, “Aaron.”  He wasn’t giving much thought to his feelings, he only knew he always looked forward to their time off in the woods together, roving about, sharpening axes, trading hunting secrets and increasingly affable insults. In his sealskin valise, he had a surprise for his brother in arms.  He descended the hill towards the tent he was sharing with Ben, stopping outside of one of the tent flaps, calling inside “Captain?”

“Yes, come in, Caleb!” Ben called.  “Nice to see you again,” he said, as Caleb ducked inside, and with a rakish, devilish smile he chided.

“Just wanted to make sure ye were decent in here, Tall-Boy.”  He looked down at Ben, sitting on his Continental Army issued cot with his feet on the floor, turning something over in his hands.  With his gentle teasing about Charlotte, he expected as much from his friend, in reference to all his time spent off with Tabby. He couldn’t resist throwing a jab in return. 

“Wouldn’t want to catch ya…. reflecting…on Miss Adams’ many….virtues.” 

He wiggled his eyebrows and gave Ben a saucy grin. 

Ben shot Caleb an irritated look, hiding a smile.  Caleb took off his coat and draped it over the chair by the desk, plopping his hat on the seat, moving carefully in between Ben and the small camp stove that served to heat their small quarters.  Caleb plopped himself down on his cot, facing Ben, rummaging in his bag.

“Look what I brought fer us, Tall-Boy!”  He lifted a clay flagon of whiskey out of the valise, where it had been haphazardly crammed, and waved the heavy container back and forth. 

 

Ben looked up and smiled at his friend, constantly surprised by his resourcefulness even after all this time.

“A welcome distraction,” Ben said, jerking his head in the direction of the papers on his desk.

“Well, It’s not Miss Adams, but it’ll warm ya well enough on such a night!” Caleb quipped, reaching out and giving Ben a hearty whack on his well defined right bicep.

Ben shook his head, raising one of his hands to his forehead and chortled in spite of himself.

Caleb chucked, and with his teeth, pulled the cork on the jug and offered Ben the first draw.

“Thank you, Caleb,” Ben said earnestly.  He took a healthy swig, tipping his head back, and passed the whiskey back to his friend. Caleb, tossing his own head forward after a few generous gulps, caught his eye on what Ben had sitting on his lap.

“That the knife your father gave ya?” He asked, jerking his head in its direction. Ben picked up the little dagger from where it was resting across his left thigh, looking down at it. The three and a half inch blade that Ben kept sharpened meticulously was mounted on a beautifully smooth whale jawbone handle, carved to fit perfectly in Benjamin’s hand when he had turned thirteen.  Now, it was a bit small for his purposes, but he had always kept it with him all the same.

“Yes,” he said, his voice soft and quiet.  “I was…thinking of giving it to her.”  His friend watched Ben’s brow crease slightly, and he looked up into Caleb’s open face.

“Do you think that she would…. appreciate something like this?  She is often in…dangerous situations.”

Caleb’s face softened. He could tease, but he was through with that for now.  Something was different about Benjamin Tallmadge.

“Charlotte?” Caleb asked, a gentle smile crossing his face. 

“She surely would. Especially with that etched in it.” Caleb gestured with a pointed finger on the hand that held the jug handle.  Ben turned the knife over and looked at the butt, where his two initials had been carved. 

Ben nodded. He reached over onto the rickety little table between the two cots and took out his equally sharp Continental Dragoon’s knife.  As Caleb watched, fascinated, Ben sought a way to distract him. 

“Tell me what you remember of her,” he said.  “From her visit.”

Caleb laughed, and turned over on his side, passing the jug to Ben, who took another swig and passed the jug back.  As Caleb spoke, he watched out of the corner of his eye as, in between passes of the flagon, Ben began carving gently into the whale ivory handle with the larger knife. He did his best not to peer over at his friend’s undertaking.

“Well, she visited the aunt fer ‘bout three months.  You were at Yale doing God knows what.” He chucked. 

“She swims!” Caleb said, suddenly recalling more, and he watched his friend’s mouth drop open in awe, sincere intrigue and interest on his face as he paused in his carving and looked at Caleb.

“Didn’ see ‘er do it, but ‘er hair was soppin wet.”  Ben’s brow furrowed again, and he looked troubled

“I didn’ _see_ nothin’, Tall-Boy.  She was dressed as finely as ya saw her, dry clothes and all. She was meetin’ me, and Anna, and Abe but she’d come from the water and she was still drippin’ salt. Ringin’ the ocean out’ve ‘er hair.” Caleb’s eyebrows raised, recalling, impressed.  “An’ she can surely ride as well.  Not just fer a woman. Fer a man as well. Instinct, with horses. Plays piano, lovely voice. Temper.” 

He laughed.

Ben smiled, envisioning Charlotte’s face flushed and hot, carving away, and Caleb watched as Ben reached over into the fire for a bit of charcoal, hissing when he realized it was still hot between his fingers.  He dropped it onto the cold ground, waiting for it to cool.  Caleb grimaced slightly, thinking that must have hurt, but his friend had consumed a fair amount of whiskey in their trading and perhaps wasn’t thinking as clearly as he otherwise might. 

“And her mother n’ father,” Caleb began, more somber now.  “They’d been missin’ a time when she come.  Brother was sendin’ ships out, searchin’ everywhere from Boston to Charlestown over to Bermuda.  And we’d catch ‘er, often enough, starin’ out at the ocean. Like she was searchin’ for ‘em, like over the horizon they’d come any minute.”  Caleb shook his head.

Ben sighed, a pang of tightness striking him suddenly in his chest as he considered Charlotte’s heartbreak.  He leaned down and picked up the charcoal, breaking a small piece off and rubbing the piece as he crumbled it into the space he’d carved out of the ivory, darkening it. Caleb could see now that the shape was a star, and a small smile creased his face. He watched as his friend kept carving, and continued speaking. 

“Loves ‘er colored girl. Quite attached, them two. Pretty lass.” Caleb said. “An’ Charlotte Adams might just the fiercest patriot I ever met.”  He turned over, grinning at Ben.

“Maybe more’n you!”

Ben felt a tightening in his chest, as though his heart and lungs might swell and burst, and waited for Caleb to continue. 

“That’s enough for now, Tall-Boy.”  Caleb said, anticipating what his brother in arms, and in everything, was waiting for.

“Tell me, anythin’ interesting in those papers there?” He pointed in the direction of the desk, and as Ben carved and stained black the handle of his beloved knife, he spoke to Caleb of developments, half his mind on the knowledge he was imparting, the other conjuring images of long, lustrous reddish hair flipping about in the ocean breeze, and wide, brown eyes staring adoringly up into his.


	18. Chapter 18

John Andre leaned over his dining room table at City Hall, emitting an exasperated sigh of disgust, realigning the side-by-side crystal wine glasses to his liking at a particular place setting. As a temporary household servant passed through the door, carefully carrying a pair of candlesticks newly polished, he caught her eye and tried to conceal his irritation and the inevitable confusion. He was beyond tired of having to train and instruct new staff as to the way he liked his household. But neither could he fault them for the fact of their rotation and the inevitable confusion that accompanied being temporary. He was between housekeepers, and it couldn’t be helped.  Hopefully the one he would soon be sent from Setauket would be suitable.  Or at least amenable to carefully learning his tastes.

 

“Ah, thank you.  Right.  Would you mind just…. helping me match these glasses so they’re all alike?” he asked, going around to each place setting to fix them according to how he had arranged the first.

 

With as little fuss as possible, the servant placed the candlesticks down in the center of the table, in line with the others that had already been brought in.  The entire spread was almost finished, and the dinner guests, not due to enjoy their first course until later that evening, were yet highly anticipated. These were not the gentlemen and officers who typically made up dinner company at City Hall, apt and primed to enjoy drink, camaraderie and carousing.  This was mixed company.  Six highly ranking members of the officer corps, some of whom who were also members of the peerage, four of them with their wives, two singularly. Lady Emmaline Brightlea and her guests: the ancient Catharine Woodhull with charming Charlotte in tow. And Magistrate Fox.  John had already had a rather uncomfortable yet inevitable conversation with Philomena earlier that day. When she had asked when she should report for dinner, he had explained with as much delicacy as possible that due to the company that evening, her presence wouldn’t be…appropriate. John had no doubt that Emmaline Brightlea knew exactly which actresses worked in The Bowery, and he certainly made no secret of his carousing with her when in exclusively gentlemanly company. But it would have been naïve of him to assume that word of their companionship would not have traveled throughout York City, as frequently as they were seen together.  He had been acutely aware of her controlled attempt to hide her miffed disappointment, and concerted efforts to depart without a huff. Of course, it wasn’t to be helped. He was not about to put himself in the position of being shamed by the old buzzard if she refused to set herself at the same table with his mistress, which he was certain she would do if the opportunity presented itself.  Like most 18th Century ladies, she was apt to say nothing so long as her status was not offended by expectations of socialization beneath it. Though John had been slightly disappointed, he would have welcomed the opportunity to hear Philomena’s impressions of Charlotte.  With another sigh, and the decision that he was satisfied with the place settings for now, so long as no disastrous manipulation befell them in the meantime, he headed upstairs to prepare dress for dinner.

 

 

* * * * *

Charlotte was somewhere else; somewhere the wind was whipping mysteriously warm about her neck and face despite the contemptuous looking clouds above her, and ones even more sinister on the horizon. Somewhere between bruises and ash, the colors rolled intermingled with one another as they moved across the sky, pushing forward a storm that would drench the field in which Charlotte stood. Far from the vast, geometrically precise fields which produced their commercial crops, in a specially designated area was the family garden where their own provisions were grown. From here, her vantage point of the bend in the river behind and beside the house was clear, and she had noticed a change in its normally calm, gentle current.  Stepping between rows of plants, she put out her left hand and gently ran her fingertips over the kernels on the heads of the stalks of wheat, taking note of the strange motions in the stalks as the wind blew them in frazzled directions around her.  Where another might have taken shelter up at the big house long before now, Charlotte would wait until the first droplets of rain fell upon the soil in circular, muddy droplets, judging by how quickly the ground soaked when it might finally be time to sequester herself inside on her window seat, gazing out past the porch at the curtains of water tumbling endlessly down, feeding everything in sight.  Until then, she would close her eyes and imagine her feet growing into the soil, her toes like so many roots, her brushed out spiral curls whipping around her face. There was nothing foreboding or menacing about storms for Charlotte.  They had always made her felt a great surge of power emerging and building within, as though the energy and change in the air had brought with it some secret, ancient resource meant to strengthen her.  Of course, she wasn’t really here.  Not home, not in quite some time.  But she had moments memorized so clearly they often flashed before her in quickly moving sets of images, the sensations around her almost palpable once again.

 

She was distinctly aware of her name being spoken, and of the fact that she was staring in entirely the wrong direction, considering she was probably being addressed.  She did her best to hoist herself out of her self-soothing trance, to listen to what was being said.

 

“…of course she might, wouldn’t you, Charlotte?.....Charlotte?”

 

 “Hmm?” Charlotte asked, suddenly entirely absconded from her reverie, turning her radiant face in Lady Brightlea’s direction. 

 

“Oh dear, forgive me, I was just…admiring the charming decorations at the hearth!”

 

Admittedly, the sprigs of holly and trimmings of garland, the grand, ostentatious ribbons and the pine cones settled amongst candlesticks aglow with golden spermaceti candles was quite a pleasing sight. She only hoped she had sounded convincing in her explanation of her absentmindedness.

 

Lady Brightlea smiled warmly, an understanding element to her demeanor that suggested to Charlotte her distraction was excused.

“I was relating to the Major, and the rest of our company, how privileged I have been to enjoy the tremendous treat of having such a talented musician in my home, and we were hoping you might be gracious enough to offer us your voice whilst dessert is prepared.”

 

Major Andre had mostly ignored Charlotte in conversation throughout dinner, choosing instead to fawn over the wives of his fellow officers, and the two women who he thought qualified as archeological artifacts sipping soup closest to him.  He had not wasted opportunities to glance in her direction when attention had been focused elsewhere, however.  Sukey had stuffed Charlotte into a beautiful coral rose robe a la Française, and insisted on a more elaborate stomacher decorated with painstakingly woven ornate interweaving of red, pink, and white ribbon, to create a pleasing pattern, the borders of her garments enhanced with ruching in almost every possible place. Charlotte was only glad to be seated at the opposite side of the table from the fire in all her finery, that she might not have one of the bouts of dizziness that she often suffered when laced in and overheated.  Hesitantly, with a look over at Major Andre, who was, after all, their host, Charlotte rose from her chair, standing with her hands clasped delicately in front of her in her soft silken gloves.  John rose and gestured with a gloved hand of his own to the pianoforte in the corner of the room, bowing slightly to Charlotte in sincere invitation.  With an easy, charming curtsey, Charlotte moved from her place at the table, her Louis heels making hollow, echoing sounds across the polished wooden floor that served to heighten her awareness of her own movements even more than usual.  She swish-swish-swished past Major Andre, behind his chair at the head of the table, and with shaking fingers carefully adjusted the piano bench so she could accommodate herself in her yards of silk and billowing panniers between the bench and the keyboard.  Finally situated, in as graceful a manner as possible, draping the sack back of her dress just as Sukey had taught her, Charlotte paused for a moment, examining at the lovely ivory keys, running her fingers over them briefly, before looking up. She discreetly unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons at the Mousquetaire openings of her gloves, which she had closed after eating, wriggling her hands out again and tucking the handed piece in behind the back of her wrists so she could play with her fingers unencumbered. With a smile, she whispered a quiet “Thank You” to a servant who brought her two candlesticks, placing one on the flat surfaces at either side of the piano rack so she could see. She rested her fingertips at the lip of the fallboard and peeked her head up above the music rack, deciding then to simply close it. 

 

“This is a Mozart piece of which, I have come to learn, my Great Aunt Catharine is incredibly fond.”  She smiled self-consciously at the wife of one of the officers, and with a deep breath, Charlotte began. 

 

A piece for strings, Charlotte’s music tutor had transcribed Tu Virginium Corona, Mozart’s Andante from Exsultate, jubilate, for the piano so she could play her own accompaniment, just for the purpose of practicing on her own.  She found it easy to default to pieces such as these when she was asked to sit at the piano and there wasn’t another victim present who could be forced to play for her while she sang, usually someone’s bashful son or resentful daughter. It was easy enough to play while she sang, but she greatly preferred to do either one or the other. Thankfully, Sukey tended to think of most everything that might present a problem for her charge, and she did her best to lace Charlotte into her stays in such a way that her shape would be at its most attractive, yet with enough space left over so the girl could attempt to breathe through her diaphragm without asphyxiating, as often became necessary. 

 

After the brief, shortened introduction ringing merrily across the keys, Charlotte’s clear, steady coloratura filled the room. John Andre, like so many of his contemporaries long made to suffer the ‘talents’ of young ladies who were being paraded about by family, and not expecting much, was gazing distractedly around the room, thinking of other things, while the piano played, but looked up with genuine interest when her voice first echoed through the chamber, more than slightly intrigued when he heard the purity and clarity of her tone.

 

Charlotte, for her part, was attempting to maintain her focus until she could dissociate well enough to melt into her music. She always felt a tremendous surge of nerves every time she was asked to perform, no matter how frequently it occurred. Usually, after requiring herself to focus and concentrate on each and every note and musical phrase, she’d relax after a minute or so into a type of ease that would allow her to perform from a place of sheer enjoyment, instead of one where she felt tremendous anxiety and pressure.  If she had been asked, most plausibly by Sukey, Charlotte would have admitted that she did indeed relish the opportunity to wave her training in the faces of Royalists who liked nothing better than to decry to provincial nature of the colonies. Certainly, she had been raised on a glorified farm, but her musical tutelage had not been neglected. Nor had this been lost on John Andre. He had opportunity to hear a plethora of singers in his time, but Charlotte’s uncommon clarity and lightness of her top notes compared with others he had heard, coupled with the richness with which she bore down on some of her lower notes had caused him to take notice with genuine pleasure rather than endure her and feign interest. There was none of the often warbling vibrato or covered tones he hated in so many sopranos, and when she sang through the fourth “Unde Suspirat Cor” phrase in the piece, the trill she stuck onto the end of her the second word was enough to make him nod his head visibly in approval.  It was not unnoticed by Lady Emmaline Brightlea. 

 

The second time she trilled the same line, he caught her smiling through her notes, just a slight tilt upwards of her lips and sparkle in her eye, as she formed the words, and John exhaled with a marriage of disbelief and pleasure.  She was enjoying herself, he realized.  And, remarkably, it seemed not because of all the attention, but in spite of it. He attempted to purse his lips, which had wound themselves into a cheeky, impish grin in spite of himself.

 

By the time Charlotte had finished the twenty second flourish which lead from the episode she had just concluded into the Allegro, her high, pristine notes and divinely executed diction echoing throughout the room he realized, uncomfortably, that he had been startled by the polite applause that had begun at the table, and that he had been staring, entranced. 

 

“Marvelous, Miss Adams!” Magistrate Fox declared, clapping his ruddy, chubby little hands together, his wig askew.

 

Charlotte rose from the piano and curtseyed demurely, smiling at the little man, who looked as overheated as she felt. Discreetly, she placed her hands back into her gloves and buttoned the wrist openings.  She had thought that she would faint at the conclusion of the song. The vocal acrobatics required of her were challenging enough whilst standing, but sat at the piano with her garments bunched around her made breathing and projection more difficult.  That she had survived without making any horrible croaking sounds had been no small miracle. 

 

John Andre rose as Charlotte made her way back to her place at the table.  “Thank you, Miss Adams.  A rare treat from such a...remarkable talent.”  He nodded to her, making eye contact and maintaining it for long enough that Charlotte’s face started to flush. 

  
“Now,” he began “We will be serving confectionary in the front parlor presently.  If you would care to take a brief interlude, we can reconvene there shortly.”

 

His guests rose from the table, migrating off in different directions to stretch their legs, or freshen up, or, in Charlotte’s case, to seek a bit of fresh air. 

 

As the servants came in to clear away the dinner service, Charlotte stepped into an adjoining room and between a set of thick, floor length drapes, to open one of a set of French doors leading out to a small balcony.  Despite the winter chill, Charlotte was invigorated, having been sat in such close quarters for so long, in a room with a roaring fire, the wine she had consumed throughout dinner coursing through her body.  She stepped to the side off the little balcony, looking down through the tangle of trees and topiaries in the small yard below, breathing deep into her lungs the fresh, chilly air, a gust of wind blowing her accent curls across her neck.

 

“Miss Adams,” she heard, startled though she did her best not to visibly react, the voice a soft purr from behind her. “How have you managed to keep such an exceptional talent sequestered away in Williamsburg?”

 

Charlotte was acutely aware of John Andre behind her, at a less than appropriate, and certainly less than comfortable distance, and she dared not turn and look over her at him, feeling his presence looming over her right shoulder. 

 

Charlotte sighed.  She reminded herself of her commitment to tell as few lies as possible, that her story might be one that she herself could maintain, but also that others might perceive it to be genuine simply by the very nature of its truth.

 

“I’ve been fortunate, I suppose,” she said, laughing a bit.

 

“You’re very fond of Virginia,” Major Andre stated, his gaze coasting down the side of Charlotte’s neck, drifting downward into the shadows nestled in her collarbones.  She felt his eyes crawling along her skin. 

 

She turned her head to the side, looking at him now out of the corner of her eye.   “Oh yes,” she said. “It’s home.” 

 

“And are you not enjoying New York?” He asked. 

 

Charlotte did her best not to shudder at the way the word ‘enjoying’ played on his tongue, slithering along the muscle and past his lips like some secret communiqué she could not decode.  Her elder brother William’s gentle face flashed in her mind, his stern reminder to keep her temper and her sharp tongue in check flooding her memory. But her father, August, had raised a rebel and a patriot, and Charlotte’s patience was wearing thin. He was too close, too familiar. And she was already tired of playing his game. 

 

She turned to face him, tipping her head to the side inquisitively, and then she spoke. 

“I would find it difficult to imagine, Major, that as the head of British Intelligence you wouldn’t already be aware of various individual landowners of influence known to tout Patriotic sensibilities. Even those in provincial, pastoral Virginia. Even the dead ones. You know who my father was. You’re wondering why I’m here.”

 

Andre smiled, pursing his lips slightly to contain it. He had to admit to being both shocked and impressed, and the rarity of the two in tandem was genuinely refreshing to him.  “And why….are you here, Miss Adams?”   

 

Charlotte raised her eyebrows in good-natured doubt. “Are you not also aware, as spymaster, that my three youngest brothers are members of the 12th Virginia, and that my eldest recently signed a contract with the Continental Army allocating a _substantial_ portion of our hemp and tobacco yields to be sold to them exclusively for direct use and financial benefit of the rebel cause?”

 

John couldn’t keep the sly smile from creeping further up his face.  “I’m certain I had heard something like that.”

 

Charlotte tipped her head to the side once more. “It is thought that I am best located where the repercussions of my family’s allegiances cannot impact me.”

 

John raised his eyebrows “And where do _your_ allegiances lie?”

 

Charlotte sighed audibly, attempting to seem disinterested, to disguise the fact that her heart was hammering in her chest. She turned toward the harbor, which could be seen clearly in the distance, the small, glowing lights of lamps on the decks of ships, and in the small porthole windows casting small spots of haunting light upon the river out to the sea.  She stepped forward a few paces to place her hands on the railing and fix her focus on the harbor, still bustling, even at night.

 

She felt his presence behind her, as he followed, at what was nearly a respectful distance, but he closed the space such that Charlotte could feel herself trembling beneath her many layers.

 

“I’m like them,” she said.  “Adrift.  I go where I’m bidden by those who steer me, and, if I don’t betray them, they’ll keep me afloat and on course.” 

  
“Which wouldn’t present a problem, I’d imagine….if you hadn’t your own compass,” he replied.

 

Charlotte turned to her side again, to look at him over her shoulder “Have I?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. She could feel a cold sweat beginning at the small of her back, underneath her fine silken chemise.

 

John raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side, smirking at her.  “Tell me, is there anything you _are_ enjoying about York City?”

 

Charlotte smiled, a genuine, honest smile. “I’m _very_ fond of Lady Brightlea.  And she has been so gracious a hostess to Aunt Catharine and I.  As have all of her friends.” 

 

“You’re better informed on the gossip in this city than most anyone else, as her guest, I’d wager.” He said, playfully. Charlotte noticed John had a glass of wine in his hand, the stem held carefully between two of his pristine white-gloved fingers. 

 

Charlotte laughed, in spite of herself. “Well, as I’m clearly aware of what you must know about me, it would similarly not be wise to assume that I have heard nothing of you, Major.”

 

“And what, exactly…. _have_ they told you about me Miss Charlotte?”  John stepped closer to her, lowering his voice to a soft whisper.

 

Charlotte smiled, darkly.  “I _had_ heard you were particularly friendly with a notorious stage actress, but perhaps that’s just some nasty rumor.  Either way, I don’t consider it any of my business.” 

 

Using the opportunity offered by a servant who, standing in the light of the doorway, had cleared his throat to signal to Major Andre that dessert was to be served, and the distance naturally placed between she and the Major by her wide panniers, Charlotte sidled past him and breezed back into the house, a sick, churning feeling in the pit of her stomach.


	19. Chapter 19

Charlotte bounced gently on the balls of her feet in her Louis heels as the small orchestra finished the last few bars of the music they had just rehearsed, conducting a raised finger in the air discreetly in time with the music, more out of compulsion to move with the sharp, springing notes of the strings than out of need to keep time.  Lady Brightlea had asked her to prepare a piece for the night’s festivities, eager as she was to show off her guest, and, undoubtedly, the fact that she was able to afford the luxury of a horn as well as a string section. Charlotte turned to offer a genuine, warm smile to the bevy of men seated behind her, clasping her gloved hands together in excitement.   

“Thank you, gentlemen!”  She praised.  “I have so enjoyed making music with you.”  She was met with appreciative smiles and gracious nods in return. They had been to visit the Lady’s home the afternoon before, to rehearse the music that Charlotte had chosen, and coordinate the finer points of their performance. She had spent but a few hours with them, no more than four in all, but it had been rather cathartic for her to work on her craft with others who shared her appreciation for the art.

“Shall we reconvene a few moments before we are due to perform?”  She asked, looking towards the director, a slight, studious looking man of late middle age with a kind face and gentle manner. 

He nodded once, quick and precise “Yes, Miss Adams, that would indeed be just fine.” 

She curtseyed to the orchestra, a quick bounce and nod of her head to show her appreciation once more, and breezed out of Lady Brightlea’s ballroom to find her great aunt and their hostess.

She heard merry, raised voices from the prep kitchen, and thought to start there.  Cautiously, she pushed against the swinging door, aware that at any time a servant might come plowing through it with a tray full of Christmastime treats plated to perfection.  She would hate to upset a platter they had painstakingly put together.  When no one thankfully collided with her, she breathed a sigh of relief, allowing the door to swing back behind her.  Lady Brightlea and her great aunt stood gathered around a rather large wooden bowl, sampling with silver spoons from the pile of whipped icing within, like a pair of school girls, giggling as servants darted adeptly about them.  As much anxiety as she had suffered on their trip, Charlotte was suddenly glad to see a rosy peak to her aunt’s cheeks and a youthful glimmer in her eyes. It had not gone unnoticed that Catharine was not moving as quickly or as enthusiastically as she had only a few years before when Charlotte had visited Setauket, and Charlotte had the impression that her aunt must be lonely in there, despite all the visitors she was constantly receiving and the constant presence of her servants.

“Charlotte!” Lady Brightlea piped, looking up. “Everything prepared?”

Charlotte nodded “Yes!  Everything is in perfect order.”

Lady Brightlea giggled “Splendid! You have a rare talent, so you must forgive me for compelling you so forcefully to share it with us all!”

Charlotte flushed, looking down and shifting her feet as she often did when she was complimented.  “Thank you, my Lady,” she acknowledged, using the proper deferential term. “It is my pleasure.”

Lady Brightlea, her mouth full of thick buttercream frosting, made a bit of a dismissive gesture with her free hand at the mention of the formality and beckoned for Charlotte to join the two older women at the table, pointing to a silver spoon and raising her eyebrows to look down at the confection. Charlotte daintily spooned a bit for herself, careful not to sully the stunning yards upon yards of blood orchid silk into which she had been painstakingly stuffed by Sukey. The heavy threading of the embroidery, and the beading, gathering, and embellishment on this garment made it particularly cumbersome for her, but in such a formal situation as this it was not to be helped.  She knew she would have to step out at least once during the evening to breathe in the invigorating winter air and restore her energy.  She only hoped to avoid dancing as much as possible, by congregating with some of the older guests who preferred to stay seated.  She liked those considered her elders, and would be content to sit and talk with them most of the evening.

Indulging in her generous spoonful, Charlotte smiled to the women despite the relative fullness of her mouth, nodding to communicate that she found the confection delectable. 

“Oh!  Charlotte…” Lady Brightlea chirped, as though she were relieved to have remembered an important task, taking another spoonful as Charlotte and Catharine did the same.

“Have you chosen a character for Major Andre’s Masquerade tomorrow evening?”  
“Mmm,” Charlotte said, covering her mouth as she swallowed and licked her lips before speaking “Pardon.  Yes. A fox.” 

She shoveled another bit of frosting into her mouth, proud of herself when she did not jump as a giant blazing log behind her in the hearth split open and its pieces went tumbling to the stone floor.

She recalled Sukey’s face, eyes wide and intense, brow furrowed, mouth askew, arms crossed over her chest when she told her she intended to dress as the very animal after which His Excellency George Washington was nicknamed. 

When Charlotted had been questioned further, rather, simply parroted by Sukey who repeated “A fox?” Charlotte had said “The old fox, and,” gesturing to herself “the young fox.”  Sukey had sighed, deeply, and walked away from Charlotte, but nevertheless was at that very moment once again painstakingly pasting feathers, gems, beads, and lace to the Venitian Colombina style mask they had been making by hand to ensure all of Charlotte’s specifications.  

Lady Brightlea straightened and Charlotte braced herself for a negative reaction, but the older woman simply reflected. “How befitting! To match your lovely russet hair!” 

Charlotte sighed in relief, swallowing down a bit more buttercream

“Yes, that had been my thought. The color and of course, I myself can often be…shy… and elusive.” 

Lady Brightlea nodded “Wonderful!” she said. “Aren’t you a dear.”

It occurred to Charlotte that she might have asked why the Lady had been so inquisitive but it might have seemed out of the ordinary for her to question a hostess, and an elder at that, who may simply have been curious.

With that, Charlotte excused herself to wait somewhere out of the way, both to vacate the frantic atmosphere of the prep kitchen and allow the servants to perform their duties, and to avoid further questioning.

In a front room, she sat in an enclave by a window, peering out between the curtains where she could not be seen. The sun had set two hours before, and Charlotte could see the flicker of the lamps in the street, and the glow from behind the windows of the other homes on the street. She sat in the cool, pleasant draft that whisked in between the cracks of the big window, waiting for the first of the carriages to arrive.

 

* * *

 

With her eyes closed, and momentary silence throughout the room, Charlotte could hear her own deeply inhaled breath as it left her lips.  The only other sounds in the room where the gentle rustling of fabric and slight shuffling of feet in military boots and heels, remarkably quiet for a room holding over sixty guests, some well plied by wine and brandy.  When she felt ready, she gave a gentle nod to indicate to the conductor, beside and slightly behind her to the left, that she was ready to begin.  The conductor gestured, and the heavy, merry string notes of the introduction to the Aria and first movement of

Handel’s Motet “Saeviat Tellus Inter Rigores” echoed, building, throughout the room. 

Situated against the opposite wall, gathered in momentary pause from dancing and merry making, the guests had all turned in her direction when Lady Brightlea had announced their “treat” was to be presented.

Charlotte had resisted the urge to allow her nerves to overtake her as the colony of honeybees that had been humming in the pit of her stomach all night long began to swarm, panic rising. It was for this reason she closed her eyes, to clear everything from her mind, and, if she were to be completely honest, to spare herself from looking at her audience for at least another moment. Then the music began, and Charlotte opened her eyes, startled to see John Andre, who she had not yet seen that evening, and who had once been at the back of the pack of onlookers while caught up in conversation with a Colonel, was nudging his way politely and gracefully to stand at the front of the audience.  Lady Brightlea, sat off in chairs to Charlotte’s left with Aunt Catharine and a few other aged guests, seemed to have noticed his movement, and the look she saw on Charlotte’s face was one that seemed saturated with satisfaction. Charlotte fluttered her eyes once again, refocusing, and buried herself in the strings and horns filling the room with glorious music beside her.  Then she breathed, determined to cast off concerns for the sake of the beautiful, sacred music, and with the air that filled her lungs, launched headlong into the notes…trills, runs and all, the terrible springs that had coiled in her muscles slowly unwinding as she focused her attention on her music. 

When she reached the part in the piece where she emphasized the second syllables of the word three times, “Sa-aev-iat, Sa-aev-iat, Sa-aev-iat” she saw what she thought might be shock on the faces of some of the onlookers as her voice jumped into the upper register. With pleasure, and a great deal of surprise, Charlotte realized she was shocking members of the British aristocracy, and it delighted her.  And, all at once, just as quickly, she realized she cared not a bit for what they thought. She was enraptured with her music. She had envied her brothers their hours of classical language tutoring, but there was nothing for which she would have ever sacrificed her musical training whilst they were being drilled in conjugation.  She smiled over at the conductor, whose knees, she noticed, bowed slightly in time with the music intermittently.  And in that moment, though keenly aware of John Andre’s intense, piercing blue gaze upon her, Charlotte decided to enjoy herself. 

When the point came, two minutes into the song, where Charlotte’s voice matched and followed that of the French horn in an impossibly long note, she looked over at the horn player and actually raised the corners of her mouth in as much of a smile as the execution of the song would allow, simply appreciating their connection in the collaboration.   Then she continued along, looking back at her audience, her elation evident on her face as the music swirled protectively around her.  John Andre cocked his head gently to the side, intrigued, as he seemed to sense a hit of rebellious defiance about her manner in that moment, though he knew not what gave him that impression.

 Charlotte continued along through the piece, varying the volume, timbre, and intensity of her volume as the music required, glancing over now and again to note the spindly conductor bouncing in time with the music, and the tapping of the feet of some of the musicians seated in their arch of chairs, pleased they seemed to be having as much fun as she, repressed as it might appear.   

John suppressed a chuckle and a smile when he noticed, a benefit of being a student of body language in his duties as spymaster, the slight wiggling of Charlotte’s shoulders, aside from the simple rise each time she breathed with her diaphragm, in time with the pep of the string accompaniment. 

 A brief, barely perceivable break in the music, and then the familiar phrasing from the introduction began once again, and Charlotte with it, her voice surging higher and with greater enthusiasm and intensity than earlier.  John Andre sipped his wine, which he found more than acceptable even by his fine standards, never breaking his gaze on Charlotte, watching with roving eyes the inevitable swell and heaving of Charlotte’s chest as she sang, against the hint of ruffled lace that was her chemise peeking out at the topic her stomacher. 

By the time she executed, flawlessly, the trill that lead into the run which ended the song, Charlotte was glowing, and John Andre was convinced her trills had a hint of joy akin to laughter within them. And when the song had finished, Charlotte almost bouncing on her feet as she had in rehearsal through the last segment of the song, the crowd enthusiastically applauded the young Virginian. Charlotte curtseyed, first to her audience, then to the orchestra who she presented to the audience for their acknowledgement, the conductor motioning the orchestra to rise so they could take their bow to the audience and to Charlotte as well. Then the conductor gestured both of his hands out to present Charlotte again, and a flush that John keenly noted rose in her porcelain décolletage, through her shoulders, up into her throat and erupted in her cheeks, and she curtseyed once more. 

Applauding as well as he might with a wine glass in his hand, John Andre noticed himself quietly uttering the word “beautiful” to himself as he watched Charlotte charmingly present her accompanists and bashfully accept her applause with a genuine self consciousness and abashment he found utterly charming.  When the orchestra regrouped to begin playing the appropriate music for the next dance, the swarming sea of people who went in different directions: to sit, to find dance partners, to acquire something to eat, replenish their glasses, or to speak to Charlotte to offer pleasantries, blocked the advance he might have otherwise made towards her.  He was then caught up most of the night in other small circles of conversation. John did not approach her that evening, but still she claimed his attention.  Instead, he watched her, brooding darkly, a behavior of which she was acutely aware, and when Charlotte finally found a moment to burst through the back door into the courtyard, she hurried a few steps before she tipped her head back, drinking in frigid, welcome air in which snowflakes swirled, the strangling feeling slowly, and finally, lifting from about her throat.


	20. Chapter 20

Shadows cast by the roaring fire before her passed in front of her eyes as Charlotte lifted the mask to her face, holding it against her forehead and her cheekbones, pressing it carefully to the bridge of her nose.  Carefully, Sukey came around behind her and threaded the two ribbons mounted on either side meticulously through Charlotte’s hair, tying them together in a neat little bow at the back of her head. 

Sukey smoothed Charlotte’s brushed out curls, making certain the ribbon did not interfere with the shape and aesthetic she had created.  Sukey had mostly left it down.  She was concerned that her charge’s choice to attend Major Andre’s masquerade party as a fox would raise some suspicion, so she had left her natural russet hair brushed out in a cascade of wavy tendrils to more blatantly make the comparison between the color of the feathers on the mask, the color of a fox’s coat, and the color of Charlotte’s rather voluminous mane.  As though _that_ had been her motivation behind choosing said animal, and not homage to General Washington.

“Tight enough?” Sukey asked, lifting her hands up and away from the younger girl. Charlotte nodded, satisfied when the mask moved along with her face, turning to look in the full-length mirror to her left. 

“Oh Sukey, it’s beautiful,” she said, framing her face to direct some of the candlelight and firelight onto the mask as she drew closer to the glass.  It was made in the Venetian Colombina style, covering around her eyes from her lower forehead to her cheekbones, with a great black plume of a feather at one side.  Sukey had carefully pasted the tiny copper wing feathers of the Purple Finch onto the mask, making sure their direction was meticulously uniform.  The sheen on the soft plumage gave off a slightly golden cast in the firelight, and the edges of the mask itself were turned up, making Charlotte’s eyes look slightly winged, and giving the slight suggestion of little pointed fox ears. 

Charlotte smoothed the stomacher Sukey had selected.  It was of the deepest black, much like the rest of her robe a la française with its enormous panniers rustling beneath, exaggerated in size even by Charlotte’s standard.  The ornamentation and accompanying stitching had been exquisitely done, and matched impeccably with the exposed part of her top petticoat seen in front as her top robe draped outwards from her stomacher, billowing to the floor in a statement of extravagance.  She had forgone, as she did with all of her dresses, accent lace protruding out from beneath the end of her sleeves.  Instead, as usual, she had chosen fitted cuffs above her elbows with silk ruching at the border. On another person, the solid wash of deep ebony may have appeared to signify a mourning gown. But on Charlotte, in the way it was cut, and in its elegant decoration, it was far too ornate to have been a proper mourning dress.  It compared more closely with a costume or a set of regalia, which, in the case of a masked ball such as this was quite appropriate.  This robe a la française had been a sudden impulse for Sukey to pack, not thinking they’d need anything that dramatic in color or design, but looking over Charlotte’ shoulder into the mirror at her porcelain skin juxtaposed against the blue black of the heavy, matte, crisp silk with its slight hint of sheen, she knew she had made the proper choice.  Hopefully the garment would either distract or deter whoever might have aspirations towards ascertaining the deeper purpose behind Charlotte’s behavior, however subtle it might be, and allow her to observe and collect information about those whose company she would be keeping in relative ambiguity.

As she examined her form in the dress self consciously, Sukey came around behind her once more and fitted Charlotte with her four strand collar of immaculate Tahitian pearls, all as black as the fabric adorning her, and when Charlotte’s white elbow length formal gloves were fitted on, drawn up into position along her arms, and buttoned, Sukey affixed the two matching single strand bracelets, one around each wrist.  Then she came around and stood in front of Charlotte, examining her with a tilt of her head and a critical eye before biting her bottom lip and nodding curtly. Then she collected a black fur capelet and put it about the younger girl’s shoulders, careful to lift her hair out of the way, and not to disturb the masquerade mask.  Charlotte lifted her hands and tied it in place at her neck, pulling the waist length garment in around her for no reason other than the pleasant sensory experience of its weight and warmth about her. From one imbued with tranquility and informality, Sukey’s countenance shifted with the swiftness of unfavorable wind and the face Charlotte saw reflected behind hers in the mirror when she looked up was one of severity and warning.  She felt her dimples ruckle her cheeks as, compulsively, she pursed her lips and tightened her jaw in response to Sukey’s glare.  Their eyes of matching hue bored into one another’s in the reflective glass, and Charlotte mustered what resolve she could, collecting her focus and cunning that she might weaponize them.  She was ready for presentation, and her inevitable departure.

“Time now.” Sukey said. “You ready?”

Charlotte nodded, a single quick bob of her head, then a sly little smile passed over her lips, and she popped her eyebrows once, briefly and mischievously. “Ready,” she said.

 

With a fluid step from the uneven cobblestone street onto the footplate, Charlotte ducked into Lady Brightlea’s carriage, seating herself by the window as the older women shuffled themselves inside. True to form, they held masks designed to present them both as matching white birds, Lady Brightlea as a peacock, and Catharine as a dove, shawls about their shoulders and arms decorated with plumage to mimic wings.  Charlotte only half-listened as Lady Brightlea reminded her that her chaperone defaulted to Amelia Whittle once she and Catharine inevitably left the party early, and the polite laugh Charlotte gave in reply to the little jab Emmaline took at their advanced age was hollow despite the fact that it passed for convincing. Charlotte decided to ignore, yet again, the tight pitching, like waves in a hurricane, that began in her stomach each time being left alone at a John Andre affair was mentioned. Charlotte felt that perhaps Emmaline’s awareness of John Andre’s more unsavory characteristics was restricted to the very fact of her only second hand knowledge.  Lady Brightlea might have been aware of some of the more unfavorable female company the Major was known to keep, but she could not have known the heated, strangling panic that had hummed through the frozen night as Andre had closed the space between he and Charlotte on the balcony only a few nights before.  In addition, the urgency with which Emmaline had presented her question of Charlotte’s character choice just before her guests’ arrival the evening before suggested to Charlotte that she had been assigned the task of gathering that very information, and she doubted very much that Major Andre was going into the evening without awareness of which of his guests would be behind each mask.  Likely a justified type of reconnaissance to have collected in a time of war for the purpose of affording them enhanced security at an affair certain to assemble some of the most influential and elite in British military service, Charlotte nevertheless was somewhat dejected that even at a masquerade ball she would not be afforded true anonymity. 

 

And all at once, they had arrived.  Charlotte moved to shrug off her capelet as elegantly as possible while their carriage waited in line behind two or three others waiting for passengers to descend. As someone who tended toward worry, having one less article to think about was a fact she hoped would work in her favor, and she hoped she might tuck it off to the side to wrap around herself on her short ride home, eschewing the ceremony of having it fetched for her.

“Oh, _Charlotte_ ,” she heard Emmaline scold, dejectedly. “That cape is so charming on you!” Charlotte looked up and was met with a rather disappointed, if not wounded, face. 

“I thought perhaps with all of the articles floating about with such a large guest list I’d-” Charlotte paused, hoping someone else would speak.  The carriage advanced in position with a slight jostling and disembodied sounds from outside. 

“Major Andre does not always maintain a full staff, but when he hires out for larger events, he always enlists the finest help.  You needn’t worry after it.  It’s so _becoming_ , Charlotte.” Lady Brightlea purred.

Catharine Woodull sighed vociferously, and her plucky little friend turned, looking across at her.

“Whatever is the matter, Catharine?” Emmaline asked. 

“Your tragic need for a new preoccupation.”  Catharine droned dryly.

Catharine waited a moment in the silence that followed for her jest to take effect, and then looked directly at her oldest friend, ringing out peels of laughter she could no longer contain, which Emmaline and Charlotte gratefully followed. The carriage rumbled ahead a few paces more. Charlotte left her capelet in place, re-tying the ribbon so it would appear presentable, but she silently thanked aunt Catharine for remaining as effective as Charlotte had always remembered her to be.  Over the few months she had spent with her, Charlotte had become convinced that Catharine was even more tolerant of Patriot sentiments than Charlotte had once imagined she might be, though she had not dared put her conjecture through any practical paces.

When first she had visited Setauket those years before, war was not the reality, merely an ominous possibility, and there had been suggestion to Charlotte in Catharine’s behavior that while Catharine herself sided firmly with neither side, she entertained and agreed with ideas attributed to both.  She seemed to Charlotte like a mother attempting to empathize with rowing children.  Now, under more threatening and circumstances, Charlotte was frankly impressed by the genteel yet subtle fashion in which Catharine planted seeds of doubt as to the nature of her own position. Despite the company that Aunt Catharine commonly kept, Charlotte had seen her pepper into loyalist-dominated conversation a smattering of sardonic comments, and a bevy of reassurances offered which Charlotte felt nearly dripped with insincerity and sarcasm. 

As their carriage planned to advance once more, Emmaline reached out and caught Charlotte’s attention, patting the younger girl’s gloved hand gently.

“Now, more than at other occasions, I’m unconcerned about you remaining with us the duration of the night. In fact, it may go against the entire principle of a masquerade if you were to do so.” Charlotte nodded. She realized that amongst those living in York City, and socializing in these particular circles, there were likely to be few who would be unaware of the identity of Lady Emmaline Brightlea’s holiday guests.  Appearing beside her and her Great Aunt Catharine would surely betray the identities of all three. Lady Brightlea continued, “My suggestion would be to find Amelia at the outset, and I will be certain you are alerted when we intend to depart.  I’ll send the carriage immediately back for you, and all you need do is summon it. And please-”

The carriage had advanced for the last time, and footmen were brining down the footplate.

Charlotte smiled “-do not stay any longer than Miss Whittle.  I remember.” 

 

Satisfied, Lady Brightlea patted Charlotte’s hand and turned her attention to her disembarkation. Charlotte knew, having not yet come out into society as available and open to courtship and eventual matrimony, that it was a slightly precarious position she was in.  In England, perhaps she might not have been allowed to attend, but here in the colonies, given the general comparative lacking of individuals in the aristocracy when juxtaposed with elsewhere, and the slight slackening of rules, it was deemed appropriate.  A chaperone rendered everything quite proper.  At a masquerade, where Charlotte could depart before the customary discarding of masks, it was all the more reasonable for her to be in attendance, but certainly not without a chaperone.  Amelia Whittle, engaged to a Captain in his Majesty’s Army, served as a fine candidate, one indebted to Lady Brightlea for the introduction to her betrothed.  Charlotte had already made the decision to act in accordance with the manners of a polite acquaintance as opposed to a fervent social barnacle, and give Amelia space to commiserate with whom she chose, but Charlotte was certainly grateful for the knowledge of the older girl’s protective presence. 

Charlotte waited in place whilst the two eldest woman wriggled out of the carriage, tipping her head far back as they shifted into position to descend, lest she be caught in the face by shawls adorned with white plumage.  Emmaline descended first, and as Catharine waited patiently behind her, she spoke in a quiet monotone to Charlotte “If you find yourself uncomfortable, you need only ask to be taken home.” 

“Yes, m’am,” Charlotte replied, with a grateful sigh.  “Thank you.” 

Then Catharine turned her head, cocking it slightly.  “We’re going to proceed inside without you.  Have a lovely time, dear.” 

 

With a varied rustling of fabrics of many kinds, and an overstated fussing of footmen, both elder women were ushered inside, and another footman reached his gloved hand carefully through the open door, bowing his head in her direction instead of peering up at Charlotte.  She took his hand, carefully, for balance, and stepped down onto the footplate as she’d done thousands of times, wiling herself not to give her dress a disgruntled yank with both hands through the carriage door, allowing instead the heavy black fabric to follow in forced compliance as she emerged.

When she stepped to the cobblestone road, heading the few steps towards the path to the home’s front door, a gust of frigid winter wind surged around her, blowing sparkling whirls of fine snow off the piles surrounding the walkway, and sending unexpected flurries flying sideways in many directions.  Charlotte had not even been aware it was snowing. But when the wind calmed just as quickly as it had revolted, Charlotte could see that indeed a steady, modest snow had begun to fall.  Nearly half a foot sat on the ground, accumulation from the past two months of winter. Had she not been in her mask, she would have cast an unobstructed glance at the sky to ascertain a reasonable prediction of the weather.  The chill and pressure in the air suggested a storm that would not soon pass over them.

 

Once inside, Charlotte was relieved of her cape, by a female servant, thankfully, and, tentatively exploring the atmosphere, found that all of the downstairs rooms had been opened, one into another, with the exception of the Major’s office. Where the ballroom held an orchestra and a bevy of dancers, the dining room and front parlor were besotted with people talking and laughing and snacking demurely on tiny delicacies. In an adjoining room, tables were set up with gambling of varied types taking place.  In all, Charlotte estimated one hundred fifty guests. A dozen or more men of whom she was not aware were gathered in a billiards room, hiding from their wives, and the accompanying social requirements. 

 

Charlotte found Amelia quickly enough, dressed in pale pink and masked in the guise of a doe, surrounded by her usual company, as promised.   They exchanged no names, nor did Charlotte or Amelia greet one another using them, but Charlotte found Amelia’s friends the swan and the fairy to be pleasant company, however brief her time spent with them. Not wishing to be an imposition upon their group, Charlotte politely excused herself to allow the ladies a chance to commiserate without her. 

 

As anyone else might, especially one feeling outnumbered, Charlotte hung close to the walls and attempted to determine who might be behind each of the masks she passed, or which passed by her, judging by what little knowledge she had of physical features of those she had met, and the likely guests in attendance. She passed at least four individuals in Domino costumes.  She had not yet observed anyone being groped or grabbed at against their will, or anyone being touched in a fashion out of the ordinary who seemed to be enjoying it, for that matter, but she knew it was common practice at masquerades, and was glad her ears weren’t covered that she might be better equipped to detect someone approaching her from a blind spot. 

She imagined that when some of the older guests, her great aunt and hostess among them, retired for the evening, the behavior would take a turn toward the more raucous and depraved.  Less likely to be approached with the classic introductions of “I know you,” or “Do you know me?” if she appeared to busy herself with sustenance and libation, Charlotte sought out liquor with serious intent.  She would have admitted, if asked, to being slightly concerned that no one had yet approached her, wondering if perhaps her identity as daughter and sister of Patriots had somehow come to light, and she was thus being shunned. But Amelia had behaved normally with her, and so she was reassured.  A servant in a powdered wig outfitted her with a generous glass of hot brandy, and she nursed it as she migrated through the various rooms, eyes darting about in apprehensive observation.  All efforts to discern enlistment status or rank were naturally hopeless, given the fact that no uniforms were in view, replaced by costumes of varying types, but Charlotte did find that with their newly acquired anonymity, some individuals were more likely to talk than otherwise they might have been. Pausing here and there to eavesdrop on smaller side conversations, presumably amongst people who knew one another, she heard mention of traveling in different directions under military directives after the holiday season concluded, and Charlotte filed away the names of these places, repeating them to herself when she was on the move again. The locations may have meant very little to her in those moments, other than the notion that they were points she was confident she could place on a map, but she hoped perhaps Ben and the rest of the Culpers might be able to weave some strategic sense out of them.

She encountered her great aunt and her hostess once or twice, giving them a discreet nod each time she passed, making her presence known that they might be assured of her relative contentment at the affair.  She found herself a second brandy, accepting it gratefully from the servant who had served her before, as a gentleman in a Volto mask bowed to her, saying nothing, understandably, given that his entire face was covered. Charlotte had to admit that as nervous as she found herself, she was delighted with some of the masks on persons in attendance.   So many vibrant colors, so many creative shapes.  Most had worn a costume of sorts, or a gown or suit intended to compliment their masked character.  Slinking around with her brandy glass, Charlotte avoided the ballroom as best she could, attempting also to avoid the potential of accompanying invitations onto the floor. Charlotte considered herself a dancer of only passable skill, trained well enough in the subtle motions and choreographed movements of the various dances, but with little skill beyond a rudimentary following of steps.  Given the choice she would rarely elect to dance for the sake of her own enjoyment, and she generally devoted a significant amount of energy to making pleasant conversation, or even consenting to sing or play, both acceptable distractions taken as alternatives.  She passed a grandfather clock which was due to charm the hour of ten, and she was once again surprised she hadn’t been approached by anyone else in the two hours she’d been present, even for simple polite conversation.  Perhaps her nimble slipping about in attempt to remain undetected had been more successful than she had thought.  Hiding in the hallway off of prep kitchen for twenty minutes had certainly afforded her time away from the bustle of the festivities. Carefully sipping the last of her second brandy, and finding a servant coming about collecting empty glasses, she placed her glass on his tray with a nod of thanks, and ducked around the doorframe back into the hallway.  She found herself staring in the direction of the front door, and noticed for the first time a discreet basket filled with spare masks, in the case that two guests might have arrived wearing the very same, the second guest might be spared the embarrassment and instead choose another character to play.

 

Charlotte remained standing in the front hall for just a moment, enjoying the refreshing chill of the winter breeze ushered inside with the last few guests, lingering still.

 

When she turned abruptly to look over her shoulder and down the hallway to the heart of the home, great black plume of feathers sweeping through the air at the side of her mask, she noticed a figure standing stoic and taciturn in the center of the hallway at the opposite end.  While others stepped carefully and self consciously around him, he himself stood frozen. Charlotte had a strange feeling of certainty that his identity remained unknown to others, and it was not deference toward his station to which they acquiesced, but to his carriage and assuredness in his own importance.  He was dressed entirely in black, in breeches, waistcoat and coat of purist black silk, in a simple matte black mask similar in shape to her own. He wore no wig nor telltale braid, but Charlotte was convinced she recognized Major John Andre. And from the way he stared her down, nearly daring her to look away, she was certain she’d been recognized as well. Thankfully, she was afforded a slight diversion by a masked stranger, a woman who approached the Major with startling familiarity, resplendent in a gown of cranberry silk and a stomacher embroidered in gold thread.  The mask she wore was another Volto, a white full face mask with an intricately bordered Colombina mask of Barocco gold imposed over it, and gold painted lips. She stood directly beside him, facing Charlotte from the side and leaning over John’s shoulder as he stood facing the vexed Virginian.  Her voice carried, humming seductively low through the plaster of her mask, and Philomena was aware she was being heard by the Major, despite Andre’s focus being held elsewhere.  She had seen Charlotte for herself.  And now she understood the fuss. 

“Well,” she began. “That must be the one with the mouth.”

Andre couldn’t help but smirk slightly.  Philomena was nothing if not entertaining.  And he did enjoy her often riddlesome methods of conversing.  He had told Philomena teasing little about the girl, but enough that someone as adept at observation as she could have retained those few facts for reflection and examination at a later point. 

John Andre realized that Philomena could likely have adeptly identified Charlotte based simply upon what Andre had said, but also, he admitted, by the simple fact of his open staring. And her mouth. Could Philomena have meant the girl’s lyric soprano as he had related it, ever reminiscent of the divine? Or her sharp tongue, given to stinging barbs even she seemed started she had uttered?  Or perhaps the literal fullness of her soft, pliant looking lips, enhanced in their isolation as the sole physical feature plainly visible on her face.  His reply was simply. “It is.”

 

Charlotte noticed the strange intimacy with which the lady in the mask approached the Major, and the way she lingered in close proximity, and she thought this could as easily be the actress she had heard about as it could be a more emboldened young lady, spurred on by fine liquor and namelessness.  She finally, reluctantly broke the Major’s gaze, not one to go seeking confrontation, but also not one to back down from a challenge. Charlotte swept into the room nearest her, the ballroom, a rush and rustle of fabric following behind her as she tried to appeared unhurried, an unwelcome flush coming to her cheeks. She wanted to believe it was the brandy and the general gaiety of the evening that had heightened her awareness, and that those elements perhaps had driven her to more outlandish conclusions, such that she was convinced that Major Andre and his mistress were speaking about her, of all things.  Perhaps the man in black had not been Major Andre at all, and another high ranking officer. 

 

Philomena could not hide her relative delight when Charlotte seemed to dart from the room, but the sound she made in Andre’s ear was one of disappointment.  “You’ve frightened her away,” She said, placing her left hand gently on his shoulder. 

 

John turned more quickly than Philomena expected, seeking her eyes through the rather obstructive eye openings in their masks.  “Whatever may happen….changes nothing between us,” he said, reassuringly, though he himself was in no way assured.  He was making declarations based on circumstances he had quite honestly never considered. She nodded twice, and detached herself from him, floating off into the crowd. 

 

Charlotte seized the opportunity to head towards the back of the ballroom and post herself in a corner, close to the wall and the floor to ceiling windows whose curtains were drawn.  As she watched for a few moments the snow tumbling down, she felt a sense of calm, which quickly dissipated when she heard a young man’s voice.

“Miss?” he asked.  Charlotte attempted not to roll her eyes lest her displeasure be read in the reflection of the window glass in front of her. She turned, and, relieved, found a servant standing at a respectful distance. 

“Yes?” She asked.

“I’ve been sent to inform you that the rest of your party has retired for the evening and will return the carriage for you upon their arrival.”

With a polite smile, she nodded her head in gratitude.  “Thank You.”

 

The young servant bowed preceding his departure, and Charlotte was yet again left to occupy her rather inconspicuous position nestled beside the great sails of curtains buttressing the window in the least crowded area of the ballroom. She turned her face back to the falling snow, but, feeling surprisingly vulnerable with her back turned to the crowds of dancers behind her, she turned her back instead to the window and examined her surroundings.  She realized the relative luminance in the atmosphere had changed significantly since her arrival earlier in the evening.  Charlotte noticed that as the candles burned low, where before the stubs had been readily replaced by fresh tallow candles, only a fraction of these which had burned out were now being replaced by new tapers, leaving each room in a dim, sensuous glow.

Casting her eyes to both doorways she found this to be the case throughout the household. There were fewer candles all around. She also noted that most of the guests of advanced age had seen their way home, or were currently being fitted with their capes and frocks and ushered out the door.  Now, Charlotte imagined, the night might veer towards the somewhat less than decent.  She heard a merry shriek from anther room, the sound of crystal ware breaking, and a chorus of laughter, and decided she’d turn back again to the window. Somehow, the falling snow soothed her. Her father, who had grown to adulthood a proud Bostonian, had sought instruction on plantation ownership and governance at the home of his father’s friend in Virginia, interested in the life of a country gentleman, and thoroughly finished with the frigid winters and what he considered endless, intolerable piles of snow.  Charlotte smiled, thinking of him now, at how he would feign disgust with his daughter for enjoying the gaiety and mystique of the precipitation, throwing up his hands and attempting not to smile. For a brief moment, watching her father’s familiar expression play in her mind, she was at peace. She pressed her fingertips to a frosty pane of glass, holding them firmly against the surface in attempt to communicate some of the chill from outside through her gloves, warm as Charlotte had become in her ingestion of brandy and her new proximity to the ballroom’s enormous fireplace.  She stared a few more moments at the flakes, marveling at the unique ways in which they fell, some with clear purpose, destination and intent, tumbling quickly towards earth, others lazily drifting on an uncharted course. 

 

Suddenly, an unexpected movement.  Someone darted past a lighted doorway behind Charlotte, and she caught a glimpse of the slender figure, a solid black shadow reflected in the pane, which should have aroused no suspicion and generated no notice, but that the motion was surprisingly fleeting and efficient in an environment characterized by charm, graceful, and even more clumsy interaction.  The figure’s haste had demanded her scrutiny, but she realized something more had incited a murmur of dread in her belly.  She pushed back from the window, stepping carefully in her Louis heels so she would not collide with someone standing there of whom she might not be aware, and turned to survey the room about her.  Guests were engaged in an elegant contra dance, partners moving in choreographed motions both sweeping and miniscule, and perfect time.  Charlotte crossed around to pause near the fireplace, where she was unlikely to be in the way, meaning to leave by the same doorway across which the figure had passed, but she paused beside the enormous hearth, turning towards the door where a masked figure was standing. Not casting an imposing figure, being slight of build and average of height for a gentleman his age, the gentleman in question nonetheless captured Charlotte’s attention. There was a feeling of terrible, uneasy familiarity about him, with a mask much like hers, which only covered him from his lower forehead to his cheekbones.  There were aspects of his features which were quite plain to her, and which she was trying desperately to place.  Suddenly, the music seemed to stop, replaced by a subtle roaring in Charlotte’s ears, and she studied the jawline and the rather delicate lips on the person who, much like Major Andre had been not long ago, though with nary the lust, was staring openly at her.  This individual, however, seemed intent upon capturing her attention with intentions other than intimidating lechery in mind.  The brandy sloshed a bit like a warm bath in Charlotte’s stomach, and she felt her mind reeling slightly.  She stepped back, leaning against the side of the hearth away from the open flame.

 

McKenna.

 _Ben!  Ben had called him McKenna.  And he was here.  And so there must be trouble.  And it couldn’t, it wouldn’t, be trouble with Ben….could it?_ Charlotte waited, breathing as slowly, deeply, and steadily as her stays would allow, and as the dancers rushed to and fro in their disguises and finery, the urge to run sparked in Charlotte’s toes and a tremor, beginning in her ankles, migrated slowly up Charlotte’s legs, towards her heart. 


	21. Chapter 21

Charlotte’s gloved fingers of her left hand clawed around the edge of the fireplace jamb. She could feel the resistance in her stays against her ribcage as she began to breathe unevenly, alternating between the inability to draw breath, and the sudden need to suck air into her lungs. McKenna was nimbly navigating around the group of dancers who had just finished their final bows to their partners at the conclusion of the song.  Some remained, switching partners and finding new places in their gender’s line, others drifted off to mingle elsewhere in the multitude, the occasional guest stumbling in drunken revelry.  Charlotte realized she would have to step forward, that McKenna’s only likely purpose was in attempt to contact her.  He was headed directly towards her, and before wrenching herself away from the wall, she made a brief scan of the room, searching in both the light and the shadows cast by the tapers in sconces and in the candelabrum placed strategically throughout the chamber, to be sure no one had noticed the alarm she prayed was not evident on her face.  She saw no one who appeared to be paying her an inordinate amount of attention, and indeed there was no one who was.  Propelled by nerve she did not know she possessed, and would have doubted she could muster, Charlotte moved toward the masked McKenna as the orchestra leader turned to announce the next dance

“Ladies and Gentlemen….” and stood opposite the officer in a gentleman’s plainclothes who she seemed to remember having been taller.  It had been dark on the dock when last they had met, their only interaction before this moment, but Charlotte was certain that this was the same young man. His eyes bored into hers through the cutouts in his mask, and she observed the sense of urgency he seemed intent upon conveying. 

“A Conradance Allemande….. l’etoile!”

Charlotte placed her feet in the correct position to begin, and curtseyed to her partner, who seemed to bow slightly awkwardly, with a strange, mechanical element to what should have been a fluid movement.  Perhaps it was her heightened awareness of herself and McKenna that had caused her to take notice, or perhaps the hyperawareness had caused her to imagine an awkwardness where there was none.  She did her best to steady her hands trembling in their gloves at her sides, and when the music began, despite her general dislike of dancing and the claustrophobia it generally arose within her, Charlotte was relieved to be certain of what she should do next.  As they stepped around one another in their first steps, Charlotte scanned again, aware of his movements and hers about one another, and those around them, careful to speak deliberately and low, waiting until they were as close as they would become before she intoned “Are we discovered?”

They stepped away from one another, to make a revolution around the floor.  When next they were close enough, turning in tandem he replied, softly.  “No.”

They crossed one another’s paths, then rejoined at the hand, Charlotte whispering “Are we suspected?” noting to her surprise how delicate his hands seemed in her own. He was not leading as Charlotte had been lead in dances before.  Perhaps inexperience with this particular dance, or with dancing in general, she imagined, or perhaps something else….he shook his head once, quite plainly and direct.

Amidst a rush of fine fabrics and twirling gentlemen and ladies, the relief that his response had been in the negative did nothing to quell the loathsome feeling which had begun with unpleasantness and now proceeded to overwhelm her, her stomach fluttering like the skin of a drum as against it beat First Sergeant’s Call. Her mind had turned to her young dragoon, how bold she was to think him hers, and yet….suddenly, spinning again, and McKenna’s voice.  “We must speak. Privately.”

Charlotte stepped into place in a circle along with the other dancers, managing a nod to McKenna before they stood side by side facing all, ladies stepping into the center first to take a turn about, whilst the men waited on the outside, then switching places for the gentlemen to take a turn. 

“Brightlea’s home,” she said, when they passed close by one another, Charlotte switching back to the outside circle, McKenna to the inside.  He nodded again, and Charlotte took that to mean he could find it. As they began the final few sets of complicating weaving betwixt and around one another, McKenna seemed about to move in an improper direction, and Charlotte had to catch his eye, slightly alarmed, but with a demure movement of her head managed to indicate the appropriate course.  She watched him as best she could out of the corner of her eye, her mask obscuring much of her vision.  He seemed to be looking for cues from the other male dancers, but was nevertheless managing to conduct himself convincingly enough that no guests seemed enlightened to anything amiss. Charlotte attempted to keep the bounce in her step in order to suggest she was enlivened by the dance, as one would likely be, on what should have been a merry occasion, such as this. Turning together once more, Charlotte moved as close to McKenna’s ear as propriety allowed, the sounds of music and heels and pleasant chatter disguising her voice, quiet and deliberate. “Fourth Window, Ground Floor, East.”

They found themselves back in their original positions once more, and as the line of ladies curtseyed politely and the gentlemen bowed in kind, Charlotte noticed McKenna seemed to have built up more confidence in his sense of movement. Hurrying to put their plan in motion, Charlotte breezed past, her head lowered and strategically hidden from view by McKenna’s figure, whispering “Quick as I can.”

John Andre had wandered into one of the doorways, and was sipping at a glass of claret, noticing that the charming little fox seemed slightly flustered, or was it befuddled, brushing past the young man who had been her partner, a young man whose form and visible features he didn’t recognize.  No matter, there had been recommendations from influential socialites of some civilians unfamiliar to him, to whom he had granted invitation; still, he thought perhaps to put an observant servant on him as a matter of precaution. He watched the directness and purpose with which she seemed to be moving, nearly a hustle, in the direction of the front hall.  If the young scamp had upset her, that just simply would not do. 

Charlotte dodged the other guests as gracefully as she could manage, sweeping around a group of people standing in the doorway, and ducked out into the front hall, where it was thankfully cooler and less congested, searching until she found a servant not immediately engaged in her duties.

“Pardon?” she asked, meekly.  It was not difficult to act unwell, as it was, in fact, a kind of truth.  The servant inclined her head and Charlotte spoke quietly, leaning forward to speak in her ear. 

“I’m feeling rather unwell.  Would you please ask the stable master to have my carriage made ready?” 

The servant had warm, kind eyes, wide and expressive, and something about her seemed familiar to Charlotte. “Of course, Miss. May I bring you something?” Charlotte hesitated, unconsciously wringing her hands “Perhaps if I could just sit for a moment?”

The servant smiled “Yes, miss.  Right this way.”

She lead Charlotte to a lone dining room table chair, set against the wall, where she sat.

“I’ll go and tell them now.  Oh-“ she began, realizing she could not determine the girl’s features behind her mask, and likely would not have known her even if she could have.  “Which carriage?”   

Charlotte smiled wanly “Lady Brightlea’s.” 

The servant nodded and was off on her mission.  Major Andre had planned to migrate in Charlotte’s direction, his intent to observe or instruct another to do so, but had been held up by Captain Henry and his cohort Captain Taylor, masked respectively as a male pheasant and a phantom of sorts, who had cornered him, highly intoxicated and immensely pleased with themselves that they had manage to discern which of the masked figures was their host and colleague.  He himself was rather inebriated, the inconspicuous nature of the evening’s interactions having offered him the opportunity to afford himself the latitude he might otherwise not have enjoyed.  He felt the familiar heat in his cheeks and the welcome warmth in his belly, the result of an ever-filled glass of claret and several allotments of Caribbean rum which he had intermittently snuck for himself out of his study.

Charlotte had grown unreasonably impatient.  She rose from the chair in which she had been sitting and was pacing about, knitting her fingers together, both largely atypical public behaviors for someone so aware and practiced in the art of social propriety.  She could feel an uncomfortable layer of perspiration trapped beneath her chemise, pressed uncomfortably against her skin, growing clammy despite the rise in her temperature.  Charlotte suddenly felt a frightening whirling sensation, and the terrible compulsion to either run or collapse on the floor.  Deciding not to wait to find out whether the latter would be the result, Charlotte chose the alternate option, and, as calmly as possible, like her character the fox, moved with elegance and efficiency along the path of least resistance through the hall, sneaking back towards what appeared to be the prep kitchen, darting between guests here and there, less frequent now, a promising sign. She pushed out of a door behind which she felt a draft, and was mollified to find she had located the place she was looking for.  The service entrance. In the side enclosed courtyard, adjacent to the barns, the snow she had admired from the window fell still, and had evenly dusted nearly every surface.

There, Lady Brightlea’s carriage stood, the gelding closest to Charlotte waiting patiently while Brightlea’s coachman adjusted the backstrap of his harness. She would not have to wait much longer. 

Joanna, a young, occasional servant employed for larger parties such as this, charged with remembering the Major’s guests’ belongings, was doing her best to neither run nor shout. She was clutching to her chest Charlotte’s black fur capelet, desperate that the young woman not leave without it, lest she be scolded, or worse, look incompetent in the handsome Major’s eyes. The Major himself was watching with intrigue, having first thought he saw Charlotte sneak by, now more certain something was amiss given the look of worry on the servant’s face. He followed behind Joanna at a distance, puzzled that she seemed to be heading out in the direction of the service courtyard. 

 

Several things happened very quickly, all at once.  Isaac, the coachman, noted that bizarrely, his passenger was waiting for him in an unusual place, at the top of a set of cobblestone steps at the back of the house, shivering.  He assumed she must be in a hurry.

Turning his attention to her he called “Miss, you may embark if you wish.” 

Now, rushing along the servants’ corridor, empty of guests, Joanna called “Miss, wait!” But Charlotte had already grabbed handfuls of her robe and petticoats and was nearly floating down the stairs in her hurry.  It was a miracle she did not slip in the heavy snow.

“Miss, please, wait!” Joanna called again, bursting outside onto the landing. Charlotte saw that the girl held aloft her capelet and was desperately trying to catch up with her, so she paused.

“Allow me to-“ Joanna began, when her wrist was gently caught at the top of the stairs, and she turned, her heart stopping momentarily when she realized the masked man holding her was the Major himself.  He placed the first finger of his other hand to his lips and reached for the cape. Charlotte, waiting a few paces away from the opened carriage door, kept her back turned to make it easier for the girl to place the capelet over her.  But when she felt the weight of the garment draped over her shoulders, she felt a sudden chill unrelated to the weather, the presence behind her somehow suggesting menace though she had no call at first to think such. She meant to turn and see who was behind her, but before she could, she heard his voice, and the knuckles of the Major’s middle and first fingers of his left, ungloved hand gently brushed Charlotte’s round left cheek tracing just above her jawline, “Leaving so early?”

The porcelain of her face flushed rosy, and Charlotte’s head snapped around, her shoulders and the rest of her body following, plume of her mask sweeping through the winter air. The falling flakes blustered about them, and both were still for a moment.  Now no longer stunned, Charlotte was incensed, her dark eyes flashing with fear and rage, and the Major, in spite of himself, was taken aback by the daggers in the gaze with she pierced his own.  She scolded herself, afterward, for not hissing at him “Don’t ever do that again,” but upon reflection realized that speaking would have been unnecessary and perhaps even incendiary. 

The reaction on his face suggested a battle lost.  Charlotte did not wait.  Isaac stood frozen, holding the horses, and young Jonathan, Charlotte’s faithful walking companion stood with both carriage door ajar and his mouth agape, dismayed at both the major’s actions and Charlotte’s apparent distress.  She grasped her petticoats and robe again, and in a fluid, desperate motion, pushed off of the footplate and ducked into the safe confines of the Lady’s carriage.  For a moment she feared he would follow and accost her, but Jonathan had slammed the door rather hard, with a distinct snap, behind her, latching it as Isaac climbed up to his seat, reins at the ready.  Jonathan slinked submissively around the Major, who eyed him closely, standing to watch them go as Jonathan hopped up on the spring iron at the back of the carriage, tapping on the roof, signaling Issaac to drive. 

Inside, Charlotte sat stonefaced, unsure if from his angle the Major could see her sitting where she was, facing front.  After what seemed an eternity, though she knew not how long, she felt a familiar jolt and the carriage began to move over the uneven cobblestones. Dazed and still dizzy she waited until they had exited by way of the back gate, then exhaled with a sigh of utter disgust, wrenching the untied capelet from her shoulders, tossing it onto the opposite seat.  Next, eager to shed all remnants of the evening, she tugged at the ribbon of her mask and tipped it gently into the palms of her hands, placing it on the seat behind her, breathing deliberately as Sukey had taught her, in attempt to calm herself. Wiping at her face, she realized there were frustrated tears drying on her cheeks, and she sighed again, disappointed in herself.  Sukey. Soon she would be with Sukey, and Sukey would provide the comfort she needed.  She always had.  Attempting to soothe herself in the meantime, she cast her eyes out beyond the glass pane to her left, watching heavy snowflakes fall in swirling chaos from the darkened sky.

                                                                                            


	22. Chapter 22

Sukey leaned over the bucket resting on a cloth before the fire, reaching into the tepid, sudsy water to retrieve yet another of Charlotte’s stockings.  Scrubbing it gently in her hands, she dunked it again, repeating the motion several times, pouring over the stocking and into the bucket a pitcher of cool water, rinsing the delicate silk.  She had been seated this way an hour or longer, gently laundering her charge’s unmentionables, drinking frigid well water from a horn cup in attempt to remain awake. Other than the pop and crack of the fire and the settling of logs on the andirons there was very little noise, with the exception of the accompanying commotion of the elder ladies’ return not long before. She placed a stocking on the muslin cloth she had laid out for them to dry upon, and was reaching in the bucket to retrieve another when she heard the familiar sound of an approaching carriage at the front entrance below.  She stood abruptly, splashing water on her apron, and screwed up her face, listening to be certain she had not been mistaken in her hearing. It was indeed a carriage. She glanced at the clock over the mantle and noticed that it was not yet midnight.  She closed her eyes and emitted from her nostrils a tortured sigh, praying that there not be trouble. 

“Like building a dam in a downpour….” She muttered to herself. 

 She wiped her hands on her apron and, taking the glowing candelabra from the desk with her as she left Charlotte’s bedchamber, began her descent straight down the front stairs, as no one was awake to disapprove.  She held it aloft as she hurried down the steps, remaining close to the wall. Sukey could hear the sound of the carriage door closing as she placed the candelabra on the bottom step, and as she opened the door, Charlotte was mounting the front stairs to the grand entrance, looking measured and collected, but to Sukey’s trained eye something about her carriage seemed amiss.  She stepped aside as Charlotte entered, closing the front door behind her, and when she had finished locking it she turned about to see Charlotte’s face beset with dread. Charlotte propelled herself forward and before Sukey could prepare herself, had collided with her, squeezing the older girl tightly, establishing as many points of contact as she could. Charlotte’s head over her shoulder, Sukey heard the whisper of Charlotte’s breath as she drew it in, and felt the expansion of her chest against her own as the she drew her own arms around her in return.  Exhaling, Charlotte pulled away as Sukey asked

“What’s wrong, child?” but Charlotte had already begun to removing the capelet she had begrudgingly replaced about her shoulders when the carriage arrived at the house.

“No time now,” Charlotte said, dangling the capelet and her mask carelessly in her left hand as she motioned with her right for Sukey to follow.  Candelabra in hand, Sukey trailed behind, following Charlotte into the study which doubled as a ladies’ parlor.  When Sukey had entered, she watched with alarm as Charlotte locked first the door they had entered by, and then the second set of doors, through which another might intrude. She allowed the puzzlement on her face to speak for itself as Charlotte brushed past her, asking

“Is the household asleep?”  She tossed her capelet and mask onto a chair on her way to the opposite wall.

Following, Sukey said “Yes, Charlotte, why-“

“You are soon to find out,” Charlotte interrupted gravely, “as am I.” 

She brushed back a heavy green velvet curtain and unlatched one of the enormous floor to ceiling windows, hauling up on the top rail of the lower sash, wincing when a creaking, cracking sound accompanied the whine of the wood as the window was forced open and a rush of cold air invaded the room. To Sukey’s horror, a young man, his shoes and stockings sopping with slush and varying degrees of snowmelt, once likely quite composed in his dress, yet now looking the worse for wear due to obvious exposure to the winter weather, ducked inside.  Charlotte forced down the window a ways, and moved to stand opposite the young man, wringing her hands for a moment.  Remembering herself, she desisted, and deliberately placed them at her sides.  Sukey approached behind her and on her right, waiting two paces away, a polite distance, but once from which she could both hear, and intervene should it become necessary.

Remembering, Charlotte gestured behind her and to the right, saying “This is…m-my….Sukey.” 

Sukey crossed her arms over her chest, nodding once, curtly.  The young man returned her nod, impatiently, and Sukey resisted the urge to crinkle her nose at the apparent arrogance of their guest.  He was looking at Charlotte with what, unbelievably, seemed to be disdain, and when he spoke it was with a tremendously thick Irish brogue, of an astounding saturation Sukey could not recall having heard since the whaler Caleb Brewster.

“I’m sorry we have to meet like this,” he began, Charlotte sensing a barely veiled insincerity, “I know ya were under the impression meets an drops would be between yerself and Lt. Brewster, but due ta… unforeseen circumstances… the Lieutenant sent me in his place.”

Charlotte’s shoulders dropped and she began to wriggle her toes inside her heels in apprehension.  “Circumstances….what…circumstances?  Has something happened?”

McKenna’s face teetered between contempt and disgust as he replied “Washington sent his troops down the Delaware late Christmas Day. Captain Tallmadge, sure-footed as ever, took a wee tumble inta the river.”

Charlotte’s right hand migrated unconsciously to her chest, pressing firmly against her stomacher as if in attempt to hold her heart in place, when it threatened to sink down into the pit of her belly.

“The river?” she breathed.  “It’s freezing….”

McKenna continued, and were not Charlotte so preoccupied by the need for details of Ben’s condition, she would have been angered by the apathy with which he delivered the information. 

“We pulled him out, and Lt. Brewster and I stayed behind. Fed ‘im, warmed ‘im. The resta the division went ahead without us.”

Charlotte nodded to indicate that she registered what was being said, beginning now to pace back and forth in a tight space between McKenna and Sukey.  She wiped at her brow with her left hand, lifting both hands now to press against her cheeks, asking

“And where is h-where are they….now?”

She stopped her pacing for a brief moment, awaiting McKenna’s response. 

With seeming willful ignorance of Charlotte’s clear torment, he quipped, sternly

“I am not here ta discuss the finer points of the Captain’s health. You were recruited ta gather information for the Continental Army. I need that information.”

Charlotte feigned ignorance, deciding that if McKenna were going to be difficult and icy with her, she was not about to make the situation facile for him, either.  Her spine straightened with latent haughtiness and as she drew her shoulders back, she wiped any emotional indicators from her face.  “What information?” she asked indignantly, a sarcastic naiveté to her tone. 

His eyes flashed with menacing darkness as he seethed

“Don’ play simple with me, Miss Adams. I havena time for games. We were sent down the Delaware ta attack Hessians in Trenton. Yer cousin gave us tha’ intelligence. You have Major Andre’s attention. Don’ try and tell me ya’ve heard nothin.” 

Overcome with a unique marriage of pride and desperate need for self preservation, Charlotte declared flatly

“I share information directly with my handler.  Especially now that my……. _profile_ has risen, as you say.”  Charlotte wondered exactly what it was that McKenna had seen, and immediately scolded herself for worrying Ben might misunderstand the exchange if he had word of it, knowing his survival were of far graver concern at that particular moment.

“Yer handler lies unconscious--half-frozen an’ near death at the side o’ the river. Until yer otherwise informed, Miss Adams, _I_ am your handler.”

Charlotte’s shoulders dropped again and she returned to her pacing and fidgeting as the gravity of Ben’s condition was once again brought to the forefront of her mind.  When, in her pacing she had occasion to look at McKenna once more the look on her face was one of injured puzzlement, and she spoke quite deliberately that he might understand her plainly. 

“Never in our brief correspondence or....limited interaction” her chest was instantly beset by the sensations of a strong, familiar ache “was I told to default to any other handler than he in case of exceptional circumstances. You'll forgive me for taking my duty to His Excellency's cause more to heart than to abandon such valuable information with one unfamiliar to me, especially one possessed of so shockingly callous a disregard for his _superior’s_ wellbeing.”

Not only was Charlotte unwilling to cooperate with such a selfish little lout, but there existed now in her mind a wealth of intelligence she’d never dream of committing to paper.  In addition, her notes from the harbor and Sukey’s accompanying illustrations required detailed explanation.  She assumed she might have the opportunity to meet with Caleb and impart all the necessary detail once she returned to Setauket, but she realized now that her choices were limited.

McKenna advanced on her now, but Charlotte stood her ground “Unfamiliar? Ya recognized me from the docks. Captain Tallmadge himself introduced us. Do ya have such lil faith in the Captain’s judgement that ya distrust his own agents?”

Charlotte balked at so insulting a suggestion, then once again grew steely with resolve.

McKenna sighed, realizing it had become necessary to change tactics.  He appealed to Charlotte’s sentiments. 

 “He carries a scarf in his shirt. One I believe yer familiar with.”

Charlotte pressed her palms together in a prayerful gesture, touching her first fingers to her lips and closing her eyes, a pitiful attempt to keep from trembling.  Distracted by the roaring in her ears and the bizarre sensation that the earth was shifting rapidly beneath her, she did not notice that McKenna was reaching in his shirt for what appeared to be a weapon, but Sukey did.  Sukey boldly started forward towards the young man, and was at Charlotte’s side when she realized that he was retrieving something that he meant to present to her, not to harm her with.  He held out a small knife, its handle of sperm whale tooth, its blade enclosed in its leather sheath.  Charlotte peered down at it curiously, noticing a constellation of stars on the handle. 

“He wishes ta return the gesture. This was his father’s, and now it is yers. The carvin’s are his own, if you couldn’ tell by the lack o’ skill.”

A melancholy smile twitched on her lips, and she reached carefully for the object, allowing McKenna to place it in her open palms. As it lay flat before her, she drew her gloved thumb across the carvings, scrimshaw stained black, plainly visible.  She closed her hands gently around it and pulled it to her chest, clutching it against her collarbones, tucking her chin down onto her hands as she closed her eyes again. Sukey, watching her fixedly, feared Charlotte was going to fall to pathetic pieces in front of their rather crude guest. As she observed, Sukey felt a tug at her heart when Charlotte blinked rapidly, a single tear rolling down her left cheek.  Remembering herself, Charlotte transferred the knife to her right hand and with her left wiped it deliberately and forcefully away.  She turned her attention to Sukey, aware of her companion’s likely response, and of the resistance she was likely to encounter, and said, strong resolve to her countenance,  

“We must go to New Jersey.” 

Sukey’s head tipped, wordlessly challenging Charlotte’s judgment with a loaded glare of perturbation and irritation. At once, Sukey was less frustrated with their guest when the look that crossed his face seemed to match the sentiments she herself was nursing. 

Charlotte, impelled by this new sense of purpose, began plotting aloud.  “Yes. Yes, we will….we will….take advantage of our invitation from Martha.  She is residing there, soon to be married and move into a home of her own, and she has informed us we are most welcome.”

McKenna interjected “Ya have no business in Morristown, Miss Adams, and I’ll no let meself be demoted should ya be injured on the road. Yer of no use to anyone if ya leave the city.”

 Charlotte looked at him with her brow furrowed; meaning to ask how on earth he remembered Martha was in Morristown, ignorant of the fact that she was rather conveniently meaning to leave for the very town where His Excellency had established his headquarters.  McKenna himself remembered not where Martha’s home was, and mentioned it only as his knowledge was pertaining to the location of headquarters itself. Instead of digressing, Charlotte ignored him and began pacing again, now in attempt to keep up with her racing mind. She realized that contrary to her original plan of deviating from the truth as little as possible, she was going to have to fabricate a great deal.

“I’ll draft a letter, purportedly from Martha stating she’s anxious - no - desperate to see me, that she is in need of help in planning the affair,” Charlotte paced back and forth again, now “being without her mother, and with an ailing father and disabled brother still in Virginia, and we’ll suggest to Aunt Catharine that I call for my carriage and continue on to New Jersey.  She and Lady Brightlea will be _thrilled_ I’m taking an interest in matrimony.”  The look of impatience and scorn on McKenna’s face did nothing to dissuade her, and she turned to him. 

“You might pose as a relative meaning to deliver her correspondence to me while on business to Setauket. Finding me not at home yet alerted by her servants, you are calling here to the house in the process of returning to Morristown, and are offering to escort me.”  For the first time, Charlotte looked at McKenna hopefully.

“Make all the arrangements ya feel necessary, Miss Adams. But I assure ya, you’ll not set foot in the camp. I have General Scott’s ear, and if I ask him to deny ya entry, you’ll be turned away before ya even lay eyes on Morristown.”

Charlotte examined the young man in bewildered curiosity, wondering why on earth he was being so uncooperative. She studied him plainly, for the first time, allowing all of the peculiarities that had collected in her rather observant mind to lead her in what direction they might.  Suddenly, she felt the urge to suppress a manipulative smile and a shocked, impressed laugh. 

“That is _rather_ impressive,” Charlotte purred condescendingly.  “Having the General’s ear at such a…delicate age. And how old are you, _Mr._ McKenna?”

She watched his eyes dart back and forth. “I’m 22.” 

Even more certain now than she had been once she’d compiled all the facts, Charlotte approached him and stood rather close, far closer than she ever would have dared if she were still in the position to believe his ruse. 

“You must forgive me for what I am about to ask.” She paused for effect. “Do Ben and Caleb know you’re only _pretending_ to be a man?”

Charlotte watched her jaw drop, continuing “More importantly….is General Scott aware?”

She gave her a pleasant, closed mouthed, and rather triumphant little smile. 

Sukey’s eyes widened, and she looked back and forth between Charlotte and their guest, stunned mute. 

The person before them attempted to protest “I don’ know where ya got such a ridiculous idea--“

Charlotte lowered her voice to impart the severity and consequence behind her question “Who are you?”

She protested, “I am Lieutenant Aaron McKenna of the Second Regiment Light Dragoons, and until further notice, I am yer handler.”

Charlotte sighed, turning that which was both her newest and most valued possession over in her hands “It is imperative that I trust you. And I cannot do so when you are lying to me.” 

Defeated, the girl in front of Charlotte spoke, and, without the deep, throaty vernacular that had once characterized her speech, said “How did you know?”

Charlotte smiled in spite of herself and the gravity of the situation.  “You have the loveliest skin I have ever beheld on a man,” she gave a short, somber laugh. “And you are the only gentleman I have ever had occasion to dance with who defaulted to the ladies’ part three quarters through.” 

An uneasy silence followed as Charlotte waited for her question’s answer. 

“My name is Tabitha. Aaron McKenna was my brother. He was captured and hanged earlier this year. Tallmadge and Brewster are both aware, and that is part of the reason I was asked to accompany them that night at the docks. They asked for my opinion of you, as a woman, before allowing you to assist Mr. Woodhull.”

Charlotte exhaled, her expression gentle and empathetic. “I’ll not ask you why.” Thinking of her own brothers, scattered and far from her, she continued, “I am certain I can imagine.” She paused, turning her attention to their common purpose, “If they trust you, I’ll trust you.” Charlotte paused again, waiting to see if Tabitha would agree, now, to become complicit in her rather bold plan. “Until tomorrow?”

Resignedly, Tabitha replied “Very well. Until tomorrow. And one more thing…. General Scott knows nothing of who I am, and it is important he remains in the dark.”

Charlotte shook her head and held Tabitha’s gaze to impart the reverence she gave to the secret she now held.  “I would not betray you, so long as we remain on the same side.  It is my sincere hope that we will.”

A strange silence followed, and Charlotte transferred the knife to her left hand, extending her right in its glove, hoping it would be accepted. 

Accepting and shaking it reluctantly, Tabitha muttered “Trasna ort féin.”

Charlotte gave her a suspicious glance, retorting “To you as well.” 

The two moved to the window, and Tabitha helped Charlotte to lift it once again, ducking outside and disappearing into the night as quickly as she had arrived. 

Beside her, Sukey stared out the window, the two able to see little in the dark but the falling snow in the light of a lamp or two yet burning in the city streets.  “What she say?” Sukey asked, knowing Charlotte’s knowledge of Irish was limited, but certainly better than hers. 

Charlotte scoffed.  “I have no idea.  But I’m certain it was rude.”   

They closed the window.


	23. Chapter 23

Charlotte was enjoying a rare moment of peace before her journey to New Jersey in the morning.  Pressed against her right cheek, radiating warmth into her face, was Powhatan’s left cheek, as he stood motionless at seventeen hands with his mistress’ arms draped gently about his neck, wrists resting lightly on his crest.  She had spent as many spare moments as she could with him since he had arrived with Philip, and at long last they were due to depart following Charlotte’s last night of rest in York City.  She drew a deep, indulgent breath into her lungs, the earthy, horsey smell of her favorite gelding and the accompanying, familiar smells of the barn soothing her tremendously. 

“All right, handsome man,” she murmured reluctantly, “I must go to sleep, and so must you.”   She slowly dropped her hands from around his neck and stepped back, after peeking over the stall door to make certain, for the fifth time, that his heavy winter rug was properly fastened around him.  He gave a short, blustery blow as she pulled away from him and she laughed, reaching up to scratch his poll while he happily twitched his ears.  She shook her head, feigning dismay. 

“I have spoiled you terribly,” she said, dropping her hand after a few more moments. He lifted his head to place his muzzle in the crook of her neck and her right shoulder, giving a gentle sigh, his warm breath rushing over her.  He flopped his rubbery upper lip against her ear and she made a quiet, good natured scolding sound, stepping back again.  With one last gentle stroke of his beautiful white blaze, striking against the bright copper color of his glossy chestnut coat, rather fluffy this time of year and this far north, she forced herself to turn away, content in the notion that he would be accompanying her in the morning.  With little effort, she rolled the stable door closed, hurrying across the courtyard in the dark. 

 

Had Charlotte the power to choose, they would have departed before dawn. But the nature of her manner of travel was such that it was never a simple undertaking, and at half seven her numerous trunks were finally being secured to her carriage. Aunt Catharine’s carriage had remained in Lady Brightlea’s carriage house all throughout their stay, Catharine’s horses returned by her drivers to Setauket in the meantime. Now, Catharine’s horses had brought Charlotte’s carriage to York City, and they, along with Catharine’s driver and footman would remain for the few days she would be staying on. Charlotte, with Lady Brightlea’s recommendation of which agency would be appropriate, had hired a driver and second man, for security in case of trouble on isolated roads. Also on loan were a team of horses to pull her carriage; the men and horses to return to York City once Charlotte had been safely delivered to the home of Martha’s relatives. Philip had ridden his own horse, and lead Powhatan on a leadline beside him, which he would continue to do on this journey. 

Lady Brightlea and Aunt Catharine were yet abed, having taken their breakfast in their respective rooms that morning, so Charlotte was puzzled to hear the unmistakable sounds of a guest arriving at the house. She was poring over the many books in Lady Brightlea’s library which she had not had the opportunity to read, committing to memory some of the titles she would like to seek out on her own. She had assumed the guest would be informed that calling hours had not yet begun, but was placed on alert when she heard the sound of a man’s boots echoing in the hallway.

She jumped, visibly, when a servant silently appeared behind her and called “Miss Charlotte?” across the room. 

She turned from the bookcase, not attempting to disguise the puzzlement on her face.

“Major Andre to see you,” the young lady said.  She smiled at Charlotte and Charlotte resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose and narrow her eyes. 

“He’s waiting in the study.” 

Charlotte nodded, muttering a curt “Thank you,” and steeled herself for her walk into the other room.  Rounding the corner into the hallway she noticed that one of the double doors to the study had been left closed, the other barely ajar.  As she entered, she pushed the second door inward, leaving it wide open in her wake.  She hadn’t time to speak first. When Major Andre looked up from where he had been worrying his hand at the edge of the desk, glove in hand, he smiled and hailed “Miss Adams!” 

Charlotte stopped some distance from him, standing with her shoulders back and her nose slightly tipped upward, hands crossed over one another in front of her.

“Major Andre,” she said. 

He sighed, sensing her coldness, and rounded the desk, coming to stand at a respectable distance.

“I have come to bid you safe travels.”  He waited, watching Charlotte’s face, but she stood expressionless before him, carefully concealing her contempt.  She had never been more confident in her decision to leave York City…and never more earnestly had she felt her call to her mission…and especially to her handler.

He continued “And….to apologize for what was my rather…..disgraceful behavior when last we met.”

“We were all of us in our cups, I suppose…” Charlotte allowed, glad to mention his clear drunkenness in such as way as to suggest he must not have had his wits about him to have ever behaved towards her in such a manner.  

Major Andre gave a subtle smile, that betrayed melancholy all the same, and he rifled in his coat beneath his cape and produced a large, square piece of heavy white card stock.  Charlotte could not see exactly what it was, but she could see clearly that it was printed on. The Major returned to the desk and placed the card thereupon, flipping it over and reaching for the inkstand.  He plucked a quill from where it lay flat on its side, dipping it carefully into the inkpot after flipping the lid open.  With a practiced hand, he wrote something upon it, and replacing the materials, lifted the card to his lips, blowing upon it with deliberate gentility.

“I wish to extend my services to you….as a gentleman.” He said. “Should you find yourself in need of assistance, anywhere in the British Empire, you need only to invoke my protection and it shall be afforded to you.”  Held gently between his first and middle fingers, he came around the desk to extend the card to Charlotte, who took it with a gloved hand and held it gingerly, not bothering to look closely. 

“I do hope you can forgive me,” he said. 

Charlotte’s heart was hammering in her chest and she feared that this was a test, or even a trap. 

“Well, so long as the offense is not repeated, I suppose I could manage,” Charlotte replied, giving a cordial smile, but not allowing for any measure of her expression to indicate friendliness or an invitation to familiarity. Her tone suggested she spoke in jest, so as not to incite malice, but she hoped that he would heed her warning and understand how sincerely it was meant. 

The Major chuckled, and shook his head gently.  “I admire you,” he said. 

Charlotte nodded her thanks, dipping her head, and lifted her face once more, waiting. 

“Well!” he said, “I shall not keep you any longer, but I wish you…a pleasant journey.” He smiled at her once more.

“Thank you, Major,” she said, gesturing half heartedly to the card in her hand, meaning the thanks to extend both to his wishes and to his apology.

The Major bowed demurely “Good Morning, Miss Adams.” 

She curtseyed mechanically  “Good Morning.”

He tipped his hat to her and made his way brusquely out to the main hallway, his footsteps echoing throughout the high ceilinged passage.  Only when she heard the sounds of the Major being ushered outside did she look at the card in her hand.  On its face was printed, in black ink, a rather elaborate seal she did not recognize, and beneath it, in small block letters ‘Major J. Andre’. She turned it over to see what he had written, and on the card’s back was simply, in a casual hand, his name, “John.”  Charlotte exhaled forcefully, as though casting out something wicked.  She was compelled to give it to Sukey, as she assumed her companion would take great pleasure in utilizing it once she had concluded the thorough use of her chamber pot, but instead chose to retain it to present as evidence of her diligent work, and the triumphant acquisition of a potential lead on information to whomever she encountered at Morristown, be it Ben or Caleb. She had surprised even herself with such a crude inclination, but in the same instant her brother Teddy’s mischievous, laughing face and bright, sparkling eyes flashed in her mind and she was reminded from whence she could trace such vulgar and comedic sentiments.

She jumped for the second time that morning when the servant girl returned. “Miss Charlotte?” She asked, “Your carriage is ready.”

 

The closer her carriage drew to Morristown, the lighter Charlotte felt, as though someone had unlaced her ribcage and allowed pound upon pound of heavy sand to sift out in their wake.  She tipped her head back against the upholstered seating in her carriage, closing her eyes, allowing herself unbridled relaxation.  Outside the carriage window, bare trees passed rapidly as the carriage hurried along the road, a high winter sun beaming brilliantly through the naked trunks, and Charlotte tipped her face towards the window, bathed in the warmth and the light.  She lolled her head to the right lazily, fluttering her eyes opened to catch Sukey’s gaze and give her a warm smile.  Her stockinged feet were propped up against the opposite bench beside Sukey, beside her sat the stack of papers, both hers and Sukey’s, which she would likely have to present a few times more.  Across Charlotte’s lap was draped a soft, heavy blanket, meant to supplement the warmth provided by the portable heating stove, radiating throughout the large, enclosed compartment, coals glowing behind a decorative grate.  Charlotte was more comfortable than she had ever been in transit. Both ferries crossed, Charlotte reveled in the knowledge that all she need do now was sit and wait. Soon she and Sukey would unwrap the parcels containing their lunch, and picnic together as they drew nearer and nearer to his Excellency’s Headquarters.  Charlotte cast her gaze once more out the window, hoping to catch a rare glimpse of Philip aboard his bay gelding, with Powhatan in tow. Ever anxious, she had a habit of checking when they were in transit.  Not in view, she assumed they must be hanging back as Philip typically did when following her carriage.  In the glinting slivers of light through the woods, and sparkling reflection against the pane of glass, Charlotte’s gaze fell upon a sight that ignited a pleasant conflagration in the pit of her belly, and caused her breath to catch in an excited hitch, hand instinctively raising to the window, delicate gloved fingers pressing against the chilly pane, her breath visible on the glass as she exhaled heavily in anticipation.  At a clip came a rider, a soldier in his regimental coat, the dramatic, intense contrast against the snowy landscape of immaculate buff and dragoon blue. As “he” drew closer, Charlotte gave a derisive, blustery sigh and flopped, deflated and embarrassed, against her seat once more, scolding herself for allowing her imagination to overcome her ability to reason.  Sukey realized, as Charlotte had, that the person approaching to ride beside them was in fact only Tabitha, and she laughed aloud, receiving a nasty look that marred Charlotte’s face only briefly before she herself chortled with laughter at herself, betraying her own feint. 

 

Tabitha, who had accompanied them intermittently as she was able along their drive, had left them when they reached Morristown, meaning to report to headquarters, and Charlotte had continued on to find her friend.  A brief conversation with a household servant at the home of Martha’s relatives, who were not at home, informed Charlotte that Martha herself had removed to the farm she would share with the man who would become her husband.  Rather a gossip, a trait of which she vehemently disapproved, Charlotte had nevertheless learned from the servant that her friend’s fiancé, Enoch, aware of the ill health of Martha’s father, which had recently become dire, and her brother Peter’s limited ability to care for him following an injury that crippled him as a child, had invited his future bride to settle into the home he had built for them in advance, where she could both establish the household to her liking, and care for her father with Peter’s help.  According to the servant, her father Marcus and brother Peter had only just arrived from Virginia, Martha having removed with them only a few days before. Now, Charlotte’s carriage was rumbling along the road rutted with frozen mud and ice towards her friend’s new home, and she prayed her arrival would still be welcome. 

When they reached her friend’s farm, Charlotte was pleased to note the plentiful fields surrounding a lovely new farmhouse, similar in style and composition to her cousin Abraham’s, though a bit larger in size.  She could see a young man flinging the contents of a bucket out a side door, assuming it was Peter, and in the distance a female form, one she assumed was Martha’s, was retrieving a basket from a storehouse. The young man stopped in the process of turning back to the house, placing his uncompromised hand over his brow in attempt to shield himself from the light of the setting sun. Her carriage having pulled to a stop, she waited impatiently as her driver’s second man hopped down and came to flip down her footplate, opening the door.  In her red woolen cape, left around her in the short transition from Martha’s relatives’ grand manor to Martha’s own lovely farm, she descended, just as Peter was reaching the front drive. 

“Martha!” he shouted, grinning at Charlotte, who stepped down with the help of her hired man. 

“Hello, Peter!” she called. 

Peter bowed with an exaggerated, comedic flourish of his arm, and Charlotte laughed, happy to see he had not changed, and the familiarity they had enjoyed, he much like a brother of her own, was unchanged.  Martha herself burst from her front door, wringing her hands on an apron pinned to her dress, chestnut brown curls unruly about her face, many strands having loosed themselves from beneath her mob cap, and Charlotte braced herself for the possibility that Martha might not be happy to see her.

“Charlotte!” she cried, breathy, and closed the distance between them at an alarming rate, crashing into Charlotte such that she nearly stumbled backwards into her carriage.  She returned Martha’s embrace, relieved, but her heart was tugged at when she heard the relief in her friend’s voice, murmuring softly in her ear

“I’m so happy you’ve come.” 

She leaned back, holding onto Charlotte’s hands, and, trembling, spoke quietly, inclining her head toward the house

“Father….he….”

her lower lip trembled, and Charlotte felt the stinging empathy accompanying her own loss, Martha’s own inevitable.  Martha steeled herself, taking a breath as her shoulders rose and fell.

“He’ll be happy to see you.”  She said. “Please, come!” She began, a bit more enthusiasm to her voice, and Charlotte felt waves of comfort wash over her as she was accepted into a place that evoked so much of home. 

 

At His Excellency’s headquarters, Benjamin Tallmadge, greatly recovered, and up to the steep challenge of rapidly augmenting his skills in the art of tradecraft, was more at ease, His Excellency having departed to tend to affairs, while General Scott had gone, begrudgingly, to see to other business. Ben and Mr. Sackett were seated together at the table by the roaring fire in the open room at headquarters devoted to the purpose of their study, speaking enthusiastically on the subject their newfound shared passion, trading insights and observations, Ben a willing student, and Sackett rather impressed with his new conspirator. During a brief lull in conversation, as Mr. Sackett’s spectacles drew closer and closer to a piece of parchment for inspection, and Ben dutifully read from a printed book the older man had given him to commit to memory, he was compelled to share with the gentleman a secret he had guarded until now.  His Excellency had still not divulged to him the source of his knowing Abraham’s name, and that made him uneasy, but Ben nevertheless felt comfortable confiding in Mr. Sackett.  He felt a bit of a flush rise in his cheeks at the mere prospect of mentioning the name of the agent whose identity he was about to reveal, and the familiar, warm tingling throughout his body that accompanied any thought of her.  There, as well, was the familiar ache, the throb that mercilessly besieged his heart, the two sensations in tandem and she, their catalyst often enough to distract him from even the most imperative of objectives. He consciously rejected his inclination to worry after her, as well, taking a deep breath and speaking softly

“Sir?”

Mr. Sackett looked up, his eyes lit with intrigue.  “Yes, young man!”

Ben took a breath and began “In the spirit of full disclosure, I wish to tell you about someone else….Mr. Sackett.”

Sackett raised his eyebrows with interest, and placed the parchment on the table, asking “Oh?  Another agent, perhaps? One you’ve not yet mentioned?”

Ben nodded, glancing down at the table for a moment, taking a breath, and, if he were to admit it, a measure of pleasure in the utterance of her name aloud to another “Miss….Adams.”

“Adams?” Sackett asked. A familiar name amongst those affiliated with the rebel cause, to be sure.

“Yes,” Ben continued, “I did not mention her until now, as it is my intention to” Ben paused, thoughts racing “….protect her.  At all costs.  She is a cousin of Mr. Woodhull.  A recommendation of both himself and Lieutenant Brewster, both of whom are able to attest to her strong patriotic sentiment, and depth of conviction.” 

Mr. Sackett was nodding slowly, able to deduce from the reverence with which the young man spoke of this agent and the circumstances surrounding the opportunity which Benjamin had taken to tell him about her that General Scott was not one the young Captain wanted privy to this information. 

“And we can trust her?” Sackett asked.

Ben felt the edge of his lips twitch in a bit of a smile, and he quickly suppressed so obvious a reaction. 

“Yes,” he answered firmly.  “She’s very bright.  You will be pleased to know that she is already applying a method you have mentioned, without, I suspect, any prior knowledge of tradecraft.” 

Ben could not help but straighten in his chair, proud to be able to say that thus far not all of the transfers he had overseen had been agent to agent. He had felt quite the fool when Mr. Sackett had chastised him for using that method, given the risks.

Sackett’s eyebrows raised again, and he reached for a peanut from the bowl on the table.  “Oh?”

Ben continued, “When I met with her to ascertain whether she was appropriate for the task, she had already thought out a place to conceal her intelligence, in the hollow of an old oak tree, as well as two separate means of communication, to indicate whether she has concealed a note for retrieval, or has need to meet with…myself…or the courier.”

Sackett leaned back in his chair, a his face plainly surprised, and pleasantly bemused. “That’s impressive.”  

Ben could not help but smile now, nodding.  “Yes. I thought so myself. Her great aunt, the sister of Mr. Woodhull’s father, is a socialite of some kind, and she accompanies her to a great many advantageous places relevant to our interests, including York City,” Ben’s voice dropped to a low timbre, suggesting the gravity of her situation, “where she is now.”

Sackett nodded, his mind racing with questions and possibilities “And Miss Adams’ name?” he asked.  He watched Benjamin intently, how his eyes seemed to focus on something distant, the small, sentimental smile on the young man’s face, and Sackett was touched by his clear affection for the girl. 

When Ben answered, there was a dreamy quality to his voice, soft, tender, and low as he spoke the aloud the incantation he had softly uttered, countless times, to himself ever since he had learned it in the autumn. “Charlotte.”

Sackett resisted the urge to chuckle, and instead gave Ben a fond, mischievous smile.  “Charlotte.” He repeated.  Then he said, very gently.  “Miss Adams is safe with me.”

Ben flushed, and smiled at Sackett in return, then quickly attempted to redirect the conversation, “Now, about this Dumas.  It says here….” 

 

The household rested in peaceful quiet.  Exhausted from illness and a day’s work, respectively, Marcus and his son Peter slept soundly in one bedroom, while Charlotte, who would for most of her visit sleep with Sukey in a guest room, readied for bed.  She would sleep with Martha this night, in what was to become Martha’s own wedding bed, at her friend’s request, that they might confer quietly with one another after so much time apart, before falling asleep. Bundling up together under a mass of quilts as the fire roared in the hearth nearby, Charlotte and Martha whispered to one another, forehead to forehead, on a chair several feet away the garments Charlotte would wear come morning, when she made her visit to Headquarters. 


	24. Chapter 24

Charlotte waited impatiently at the perimeter of His Excellency’s headquarters, Powhatan steadfast and perhaps slightly bored beneath her.  She had given him his head in relaxing her grip on the reins, and he stood with his neck stretched out, snuffling around on the ground, as unimpressed by his surroundings as ever.  A young man of perhaps seventeen years watched her in moments when he thought she wasn’t aware of him, waiting for his co-guard to return with word from Captain Tallmadge.  Resplendent in a fitted riding habit of Continental navy, lined and accented with red silk, red embroidery, and silver buttons, it was thanks to Sukey, whose efforts had begun with rising at dawn to heat her bath, that Charlotte radiated patriotic elegance that morning. She smoothed the front of her skirted dress coat, running her hands anxiously over the buttons, not anticipating that it was these few minutes of waiting that would bring her the most apprehension. She cursed her sidesaddle, her right leg perched uselessly atop the leaping horn, fabric pooling over most of Powhatan’s back.  From behind the collar and the first few unbuttoned buttons of her coat protruded a heavy buff silk scarf tied about her neck and affixed with a white gold pine tree pin her father had given her, a symbol of independence in his native New England. She wore on her hands matching buff leather gloves lined in rabbit fur, and Sukey had pinned to her half upswept hair a little cocked hat which had been made to match this particular habit. Behind her and to her right sat Philip upon his bay, unwavering in his stoicism and his dedication to the family he served. Charlotte had given the now absent boy her scrap of paper with a single anchor drawn upon it, relieved to hear that indeed Captain Tallmadge was indeed present, and she had been waiting in place for what seemed to her like hours for the young man to return and permit her entry. She was confident he would do so, as her handler would certainly recognize the symbol they had decided upon at the dock, which signaled her desire to meet.  The anticipation, nevertheless, was torture.  Inside Charlotte's left sleeve, affixed to her forearm and concealed inside its sheath, was Ben’s knife. 

Tobias Rose had never dreamed when he had been given the honor of serving as perimeter guard at General Washington’s winter headquarters that he would have the opportunity to venture inside the building where some of His Excellency’s most important business was conducted.  Yet here he was, walking hesitantly down the hallway, following behind an enlisted secretary who gestured into the study Captain Tallmadge occupied before departing to return to his own duties in another part of the building.  Toby waited patiently for the Captain to look up from the bevy of documents on the table before him, and when he did young Toby smiled in spite of himself, slightly awe-struck.

“Yes, Corporal?” Ben asked pleasantly. 

“Begging your pardon for the interruption, Sir,” Toby began, “but there is a guest at my perimeter point who wishes to see you.” He remembered the little folded bit of parchment in his hand, proud of himself for having the restraint not to have unfolded it, despite his curiosity. He held it out apprehensively in an outstretched hand, extending his arm to indicate he did not wish to come further into the room without permission. “She bid me give you this.” 

Ben felt the sudden rush of blood to his face, and before he was aware that he had done so, he leapt to his feet, nearly overturning his chair behind him, and was coming around the table to gingerly accept the bit of paper from the young soldier. Across the hall, Mr. Sackett had looked up from his desk against the wall and was watching intently. Unfolding the small scrap paper with unsteady hands, Ben felt all the breath in his lungs desert him when he saw the dainty anchor inscribed in ink on the parchment, his heart beating so forcefully in his chest he was surprised the boy could not hear it. 

“She…..” Ben uttered softly, still staring at the paper.

“Em….Yes, Sir,” Tobias answered, his eyes darting back and forth, uncertain whether or not the Captain had meant his utterance as a question.

Ben sighed, in spite of himself, the sensation in his chest one of a hundred humming birds thrumming their wings inside a tiny cage. 

“Is she….” Ben looked up hopefully “auburn of hair, and….fair?” 

Tobias nodded. “Oh, yes, Sir.” Then Toby grinned in spite of himself. “Very fair.”

Ben gave the young Corporal a brief, tight smile of his own, an usual type of familiarity between a superior officer and his subordinate, and said “Send her ahead, please, Corporal. I will receive her here.”

Toby gave a polite nod and saluted “Yes, sir,” he said.  He marched efficiently through headquarters, out the door and down the stairs, breaking into a run when he reached the ground. 

Ben felt an overwhelming battery of emotions besiege him, such that he could not name a one even had he tried. He smoothed his waistcoat inside his regimental coat, and took a deep breath in attempt to steady himself before he saw her again. He recalled that a mirror hung against the wall in the room, and he strode over to glance into it, smoothing back his hair anxiously and checking his reflection, standing up straight and attempting to erase all evidence he was flustered from his face. Then he heard a voice.

“Captain Tallmadge?” Mr. Sackett called, from across the hallway. 

Ben turned, locking eyes with the other man. 

“Something amiss?” Sackett asked. Ben crossed the hallway deliberately, attempting to regain mastery of himself before he must walk outside. He drew near to Sackett, should there be anyone else in the building who might overhear their exchange He spoke quietly, leaning over to direct his voice into the older man’s ear.  “Our additional agent…is here.” 

Sackett drew back, surprised, and cocked his head upwards with interest “Here?” he repeated, taken aback. 

Ben smiled, giving a sharp, astonished sigh, and tipped his head downward in disbelief, gazing at the floor for a moment, then raising his eyes to meet Sackett’s again.  “Yes. Here.” 

Sackett’s smile in return was playful and impish when he spoke, and he made a show of looking at the clock. 

“Well, we have been at our tasks for quite some time…what say you to a short recess? An hour, perhaps?” He asked. 

Ben nodded, saying nothing explicit to Sackett of his appreciation, but hoping it would be inferred from the warm smile he kept on his face. 

“Yes, Mr. Sackett.” 

Sackett nodded, returning to his desk.  As Ben departed he heard Mr. Sackett speak again, his back to the older man in the doorway. 

“When you’ve concluded your….visit with the young lady, do bring her in to meet me, won’t you?”

Ben turned back around to nod to the small, peculiar little man, and with a deep breath and no small amount of elation, he propelled himself down the hallway, excitement thrumming throughout his entire body. 

 High on Powhatan’s back, Charlotte could see the soldier who had gone ahead hurrying back across the light crusting of snow upon the ground.  When he came to a skidding stop in front of her, it was with no small effort that he did not at once begin to pant and proceed to double over with his hands on his knees for want of breath.  He remained as composed as possible and said “Please, Miss, come ahead.  It’s the white building, simply take this path.” He pointed, and Charlotte nodded her thanks, encouraging Powhatan into a walk and then a canter, focusing her attention entirely upon her communion with her horse in their tandem movements, that she not be overcome with fretfulness. 

Waiting in the very place where he and General Scott had waited for His Excellency a few days before, Ben stood erect and composed, meaning to make the best possible impression when Charlotte appeared.  And then, she did.  From a break in the trees where the trail was cut, came a flash of copper and navy between the naked trunks, and Ben could make out the shape of a glamorous looking gelding making his way along the path at a collected canter, his rider poised and graceful atop his back.  Drawing closer and closer by the moment, Ben could not pinpoint the moment he actually saw her, as he took her in in a battery of overwhelming waves, his chest expanding in rapture with each breath.  Then, close by the small encampment out in front of Headquarters, she must have indicated to the horse to slow, as he dropped neatly through his gaits into a walk.

As Powhatan continued on his course towards the building, a slight arrogance to his working walk, Charlotte’s eyes scanned to and fro as she searched everywhere within her field of vision, hoping to find Ben, stray auburn curls floating about her shoulders in the blustery winter breeze.  It was then, looking at her, that he came to the realization that perhaps he had been in her thoughts as often as she had been in his, and the familiar tingle he associated with Charlotte began anew, blazing through him once again with an intensity he had not felt before in her absence. He considered how great an effort it had been for her to come, how treacherous her journey may have been, and allowed himself to hope that her purpose here was not simply to deliver intelligence she had collected.  Then, finally, their eyes met, and Charlotte paused, her lips slightly parted, captivated by the very fact of him in all his splendor, able to do nothing other than simply look upon him.  Ben beamed at her, tenderness and admiration evident in his expression. Powhatan stopped, standing a few yards from where Ben stood frozen in place, and Charlotte tipped her head to the side, a smile drawing like a bow across her face, matching dimples appearing on each of her cheeks.  To Ben, she was breathtaking, more lovely than he remembered now that he could see her by the winter sun’s plentiful light, and he stepped forward, approaching the horse on Charlotte’s left, stopping at the gelding’s head to gaze up at her, entranced, studying all the features he had conjured for himself countless times from his memory. 

With a fluid refinement, she leaned over the pommel of her sidesaddle and gently patted Powhatan’s neck, prolonging the gesture of praising her horse as an excuse to linger and gaze back with open, unbridled adoration into Ben’s penetrating blue eyes.  A warm, pleasant, and slightly overwhelming sensation flooded her chest and she, without realizing she was about to speak, spoke softly, only to Ben.

“Hello, Captain.”


	25. Chapter 25

Benjamin Tallmadge had just been thinking how like the constellation of stars on her scarf were the freckles across Charlotte’s porcelain cheeks, flushed rosy by the harsh winter wind, when he realized he had as yet said nothing, and the splendid creature above him was waiting expectantly for him to do so. He wrenched himself out from beneath the spell of his transfixion and bowed with as much decorum as his pounding heart would allow, careful to avoid moving too near for propriety’s sake. He raised his eyes to her again, realizing she had straightened and now looked down to him with a kind of gentle ease about her carriage and expression that soothed in him a tension he had not known he had harbored until this moment, feeling now its absence.

“Miss Adams….” he uttered.  She watched his chest heave beneath his waistcoat, as he breathed deeply into his lungs and exhaled, shaking his head a little bit, scoffing with a little smile of disbelief, still surprised, and frankly impressed, to see her.  His brows furrowed a bit, and he looked up at her, murmuring quietly in his concern “Is……is everything….all right?” 

Charlotte tipped her head down and to the left, the corners of her mouth drawing further apart to widen her tender, closed mouth smile.  Ben resisted the urge to grin openly in response to how much further pronounced it rendered her matching dimples, such a charming feature of hers, but the severity of his question and the anticipation of its answer prevented him from doing so. 

“That is precisely what I have come here to make certain of, Captain.” She said, softly.   Before he could speak, looking up, slightly open mouthed in disbelief, at her, moved as he was by her words, she continued. 

“That, and I have” she lowered her voice even further, thought there was not a soul close enough to hear them, and dipped forward again to speak in confidence,

“I have intelligence I feel would be best conveyed in your presence, rather than risking discovery of lengthy written communication that likely requires explanation…So...when Tabitha...when I heard of your misfortunate in the Delaware……” 

Charlotte was panicked by the thought that she was gibbering like a baboon, and suddenly horrified at the notion of how ludicrous her behavior had been, that she had arrived, unannounced, on a military base where she did not strictly belong, having traveled nearly a hundred miles on a whim. She was terrified that she might have inconvenienced or irritated the only person for whom she had ever had any true affection, and concerned further still that he might turn her away, despite having thus far not demonstrated any displeasure with her. Ben, for his own part, was cursing Tabitha for all his imagination was suggesting she had likely told Charlotte, and was doing his best not to appear irked lest Charlotte think herself the source of his exasperation.  He opened his mouth to speak, stepping a bit closer to her impressive horse, reaching out in a gentle, reassuring gesture, but Charlotte was speaking again, and Ben found he himself could not, wanting only to listen.

His eyes searched her plainly troubled face, a sharp twinge besieging his heart.

“I know it was reckless and impulsive of me to come..." she breathed laboriously, looking down at her hands, fiddling nervously with the braided reins within them, turning then her face back to Ben’s with a look that begged he be merciful.  "Captain…..Please forgive me....I couldn't stay away.”

Sensing her distress, and deeply moved by her words, Ben drew even closer to her, resisting the urge to touch her hand, where it rested beside the other on her horse’s withers.  Instead, he reached up and patted her horse’s neck reassuringly, speaking in a tone that both comforted and conveyed authority.

“You have done nothing for which you need ask my forgiveness.” 

His blue eyes flickered back and forth between his hand, gently stroking her horse’s neck, and her wide brown eyes, fixed on him.  He continued

“If anyone it is I who should be asking your forgiveness, for having allowed you to place yourself in such terrible danger.” 

Charlotte fiddled with her reins, a flush rising again in her cheeks now that her faith in his impression of her had been restored.  She reached forward with a rein in her gloved hand to pet Powhatan herself, happy to have something to occupy her lest she continue to stare too fixedly at the dashing Captain who finally stood beside her once more after so long. 

“You mustn’t think of it in those terms,” Charlotte said, her voice a soft, soothing hum.  “It is my great honor to be able to contribute in however small a way, to our noble cause, and my great privilege to be under the direction of so capable and intelligent a handler.”

“You flatter me, Miss Adams.”

“Then I may count at least part of my mission to New Jersey successful.”

When Ben flushed, she laughed, surprised by her own bravado. Charlotte continued, hoping to communicate all she intended to before she lost her nerve.  “I realize that you must be actively occupied here, at headquarters, on terribly important business that I neither wish nor intend to keep you from. I meant only to inform you of my presence in New Jersey and express my hope that when you are… at liberty” here she paused, giving emphasis to her charming reference “we might speak.”

Ben nodded politely, and began to speak. 

“As it so happens, I am at liberty now.”   He looked over to the building in which he and Sackett had been hard at work all morning, suggesting to Charlotte that it was there he had been, “General Washington…”

“His Excellency??” Charlotte asked.  She pressed her weight down into her only stirrup, rising up as much as her sidesaddle would allow, peering around, and scanning her line of vision to see if she could catch a glimpse of the man himself. Her mother would have been mortified. “He is actually here??” She whispered to Ben.

Ben beamed, for just a moment, both charmed by Charlotte’s excitement and reminded of his own when first the General had appeared before him following Trenton and Princeton.  Then he reminded himself he was in front of subordinate officers and cleared his face of all expression.

“Not at this moment, but I have been…. assisting him.”  Charlotte sat back down in her saddle, collecting herself, realizing she had been rather unladylike in her nosiness.

Ben’s chest swelled with pride, the fact that he was able to inform Charlotte of his involvement with His Excellency gave him a bit of a thrill. He continued. 

“I was only just taking a short recess from discussion with a colleague of his, on our mutual theatre of interest-” Ben indicated to Charlotte, by his expression, that the ‘our’ suggested both his with the man she would come to know as Mr. Sackett, and theirs, his and Charlotte’s, handler and spy. He was about to continue when he was once more interrupted, by someone else. 

Powhatan had remained relatively motionless, with the exception of a few discreet tosses of his head, a testament to the manners Charlotte had taught him, but he was certainly curious about the young man standing beside him, who seemed to have such a profound depth of interest in his mistress. The shift in Charlotte’s weight had also not gone unnoticed.  He craned his neck and turned his head to his left, twitching his ears about with curiosity, and sniffed with interest at the arm of Ben’s bright blue regimental coat, flapping and wobbling his lips a bit in attempt to obtain information about the new stranger. Charlotte leaned to the side to watch what he was doing, and narrowed her eyes, amused by this behavior. Generally, her horse was rather bored and indifferent to humans with whom he had no familiarity, and occasionally somewhat standoffish.  But she had always considered him a wonderful judge of character, and was pleased to see that he had taken an interest in the Captain.  Ben chuckled softly and put out his hand, allowing the big gelding to sniff his palm, feeling the warmth of the horse’s breath as he exhaled.

‘This is Powhatan,” Charlotte said.  “Who apparently has been waiting for an introduction.”

Ben smiled and stepped closer to Powhatan’s head, speaking soft and low, muttering

“Hey, boy.”

The horse raised his face to Ben’s, sticking his muzzle into the space beside Ben’s shoulder and his left ear, blowing on him in greeting.  Recalling his initial intention before the horse’s pleasant interruption, Ben turned his attention back to Charlotte, gently petting Powhatan’s neck as the horse continued to snuffle at him good naturedly. 

“Miss Adams…” he smiled with reserved anticipation, “Would you care to take a walk with me?”  Ben asked.

Charlotte smiled openly at him, then pursed her lips in the hopes of containing the extent of her excitement, and nodded.  “I’d like that very much.” 

 

Before Ben could move to help her, unsure of exactly how he should do so, Charlotte had expertly freed her right leg from its perch on the leaping horn of her sidesaddle, both legs now on her left side, and dropped her left foot out of her single stirrup.  With a silent prayer that none of her petticoats would snag anywhere, lest she reveal to the Captain anything she hoped, at least at this juncture, to keep concealed, Charlotte dropped from her sidesaddle with a whish and rustle of fabric, and landed gracefully on the balls of her feet in her leather riding boots, with a satisfying _crunch_ in the snow. Though her landing was not, her newfound proximity to Ben was jarring, for both, and they stood for a moment, taking one another in.  A breeze rustled through the few giant pine trees bordering and dotting the many lawns at headquarters, and sent those locks not pinned beneath Charlotte’s cocked hat to blowing about her shoulders in graceful tendrils propelled in varied directions by the wind. Ben moved aside, noticing that Charlotte held Powhatan’s reins in her right hand, sensing that she meant to put them over his head, which she did, walking up to stand beside him as she did so. He closed the space between them, studying Charlotte with all the attention he would give the map of a critical vantage point, or an invaluable piece of intelligence, and with all the admiration he had given His Excellency, though for far different reasons and with far different intent.  Ben absorbed all of her that he possibly could, standing yet at a respectable distance.

He watched her draw the reins over Powhatan’s head and hold them looped in her left hand as she went back to her saddle and ran up her single stirrup iron up along the rear loop of the stirrup leather, setting it to rest high up under the knee roll, tucking the stirrup leather back through the iron so it would rest securely.  Then Charlotte turned back around to face Ben, fixing the reins to hold them in both of her hands, clutched in each fist at different intervals.  She smiled up at him, unsure what to do next, and it was then Ben turned his attention to the man who had swung down from his own horse when Charlotte had dismounted, and had now come around, leading his horse, to where he could be seen. 

 

“Mi’Charlotte?” He called, holding out a hand for her reins. 

“Oh!” Charlotte said, tearing her eyes from Ben’s face. 

“Just a moment, please, Philip.” 

She spoke only to Powhatan. “Let’s see if you’ve been icing up.”

She had been worried about his hooves in the snow, despite the relative warmth of the day, and despite the lateness of the season.  Charlotte stood beside Powhatan, facing his tail, and, looping a rein through her arm onto her elbow, she leaned over and gently pushed her weight against his shoulder, running her hand down his cannon with her left hand, stopping where it joined with his fetlock, reaching down with her other hand to pick up his hoof.  She turned it to look at the bottom, scrutinizing the sole and the frog, pleased to see nothing there.

“You’re all right.”  She said, carefully placing Powhatan’s hoof back onto the ground.  She stood and went to Philip with Powhatan, handing over her reins.

“I coulda done that, Mi’Charlotte,” Philip scolded.

Charlotte smiled.  “You do too much.” She turned back to Ben.

“Captain Tallmadge, may I present Philip Freedman, our stable master.”

The two men nodded cautiously at one another.  Philip turned back to Charlotte. “I’ll be ‘round when you need me. I’ll check them other feet, too.”

 

Charlotte nodded her thanks and Philip walked off with both horses. Then Charlotte turned back and stood before Ben once again, nothing to do with her hands but worry them together slightly, waiting for him to speak. 

He watched her face, studying, committing to memory.  Ben longed to reach for her, to smooth his hands slowly along her narrowed sides where her stays pulled her in at her waist, and draw them around behind her to rest his palms against her back, where he could apply gentle yet assertive pressure and draw her close to him, to hold her against his chest where she might rest her cheek on his waistcoat beneath his chin and put her arms about him in return.  But they were at His Excellency’s headquarters, and all he longed for would have to wait, though he was encouraged by her warmth and her kindness that she might desire what he himself so yearned for.

Charlotte managed to look away once again, and noticed, with alarm, that many of the enlisted men present had ceased the process of completing their tasks, or were continuing distractedly, to look at them both, and suddenly she was compelled to panic again.  Her eyes shifted around, her worry growing exponentially as she noted all the pairs of eyes on them. 

 

She stepped closer to Ben and whispered “Everyone is staring at us.”

Ben chuckled and looked down at his feet for a moment before looking back up at her. “I believe everyone is staring at you, Miss Adams.” 

She was suddenly reminded of the very real possibility that her presence could bring about negative implications for Ben.

“Truly, should I not have come?”  She asked, clearly alarmed.  “Have I jeopardized your position?  You must think me mad! I’m terribly sorry if I-”

“Miss Adams!” Ben exclaimed, interrupting, his voice gentle yet unmistakably authoritative, commanding. 

“You are…. **most** welcome here.” He sighed, displeased with the soldiers’ behavior, that it had become necessary for him to account for their gawking. His compulsion to pull her to his chest and hold her against him surged within him, stronger than ever.

“I believe it is their genuine surprise to see a woman in their midst, especially one of such station, in conjunction with….” Ben took a breath, summoning courage, speaking softly, and earnestly, “your…incomparable loveliness…that has captured their attention.” 

Charlotte took a deep breath, greatly relieved once more, and managed a smile, a flush rising in her cheeks.

“How kind of you to say, Captain.”  She paused. “But I must admit I can think of…only one” she paused, nudging her head in his direction “whose attention I would be pleased to capture.” She smiled very openly and plainly at him now, looking directly into his eyes, and Ben could feel himself shifting his weight in boots as he fought the instinct to step forward and take both of her hands in his and press his forehead against hers.

Instead, he smiled again.  “You have more than my attention, Miss Adams.”

She gave a soft easy laugh and slightly inclined her head, raising her eyebrows hopefully.

“Please…call me Charlotte.” 

Ben bowed his head to her, acknowledging his acquiescence, pursing his lips, yet smiling at the same time. 

“Shall we?” He asked, gesturing grandly with his left arm in the direction of the walking path. 

Charlotte nodded.  “Lead and I shall follow, Captain.”  

He chuckled, standing beside her now, turning to look down at her as they walked side by side.  His voice was soft and assuring when he spoke.  “Please, call me Ben.”


	26. Chapter 26

As Charlotte walked at his side in those first few moments of silence, her eyes forward, her head confidently raised, her posture impeccable, Benjamin Tallmadge stole sideways glances at her, attempting to disguise the fact that he was doing so, but not exceedingly concerned about the prospect of her noticing.  He was leading her down a well traveled path which wound through headquarters, one bordered by trees that stood dense and naked about the route, a lane upon which they would at no time be out of sight of others, for propriety’s sake, but whereupon they could speak privately if they kept their voices low and paused their conversation as they passed the occasional soldier in their perambulation.  Aware of a slope they were approaching, Charlotte turned gracefully in her stride, remaining in step beside Ben, but facing backward for a few paces, meaning to ascertain where Powhatan and Philip had gone.  Spying them both, the brilliant gloss of Powhatan’s bright copper chestnut coat catching, with a gleam, the winter sunlight, she smiled. Ben stopped, turning about to see what it was she was looking at, and she followed suit, sensing the pause in his stride.  She raised her right hand in an elegant arc above her head, palm facing Philip, several hundred yards away, and he returned the gesture.  She turned back to Ben with first a smile and then a downward cast of her eyes, flushing a bit.  He resumed their progress, and she continued at his side. 

 

“My apologies, for the distraction.” Charlotte said. “He and Philip had been en route from Virginia to Setauket for some time, and then from Setauket to York City. As such, I’ve been…rather anxious.”

 

Ben turned his head to smile warmly at her.  The pine tree pin securing the scarf at her neck had not gone unnoticed by him, and he noted now the way the winter sunlight reflected against the gleaming metal.

 

Charlotte continued, nervous, searching for a way to fill the silence before she imparted the intelligence she had gathered, as, in the course of doing so, she had decided it would also be necessary to broach a topic that caused her some apprehension, but which she did not wish to avoid given the good rapport she hoped wound continue between herself and her handler.

 

“Philip has a wonderful grasp on his moods, but unfortunately, despite how Spartan I’ve attempted to remain in raising him, Powhatan can be rather…fussy, at times.”

 

Ben raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed.  “Raising him?” He looked down at his boots, pleased to find them sufficiently burnished, befitting an officer.

 

Charlotte nodded.  “Yes. From a colt.  It was a kind of right of passage, for my brothers and I, I suppose.  Each of us began training a mount of our own at sixteen, under our father’s watchful eye, and of course with the help of Philip’s expertise.”

Ben nodded. “He makes a splendid impression….” He looked over at her, his eyes drawn to her thick eyelashes and the plumpness of her cheeks. His voice was softer and gentler as he continued, “as does his rider.” 

“Thank you,” she said, stealing a glance over at him, during which they locked eyes and smiled serenely at one another, then returned their gazes to the path ahead, embarrassed.  “On both of our behalves.  I named him after Wahunsenacawh, who was known as Chief Powhatan, and his people.  My father had a great affinity for the Algonquin.” Charlotte smiled.

Ben recalled what Caleb had told him of how Charlotte’s parents had been lost at sea, and the image Caleb had illustrated in his mind of Charlotte staring off at the horizon as if in search of them had pained him since his brother in arms had painted it there. 

“It pained me to hear, about your mother and father, when Caleb told me.” Ben said, quietly. “From what I gather, he was a tremendous influence on you.  You have my sincere condolences.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte replied.  “He was, for certain.  It has been more difficult, now, separated as I’ve been from home.”

“I can imagine.”  Be replied, his tone forlorn, and he thought of his own father, alone now that he and Samuel had joined the Continental Army, his mother having died when they were young. The company and fellowship of those in his congregation had served to stave off Nathaniel’s loneliness in the absence of his immediate family, but now that he had been stripped of his ministry, the matter of his father’s well-being was a constant source of concern for Ben.

“May I ask why you found yourself in Setauket?”  The helpless, empathetic look on Ben’s face when Charlotte turned to him was slightly vexed, and she went on to explain further.

“My father’s rather…zealous patriotism was difficult to ignore, for everyone who ever encountered him. While the three youngest of my brothers joined the Continental Army almost as soon as they were able, the eldest of us remained at home to manage the farm, and it appears that there were those who mistook his gentle nature for neutrality.  His sentiments, of course, are in line with those shared by the rest of us, he’s simply rather quiet in his way.  In late summer, he signed a contract with the Continental army, promising them the majority of our hemp and tobacco yields, and he felt that with the declarative nature of the bargain they had struck, I would be safer outside Virginia.” Charlotte twitched the side of her mouth, indicating her disappointment, and yet, at the same time, her resignation to her brother’s judgment.  “We did not agree, but I did not wish to argue with him…his burden is already too great.”  

As they wound around headquarters along the path, the sounds of the more populated areas of camp faded away.  Ben recalled Caleb having said that her brother was now in charge of managing the farm, but was also responsible, for quite some time, for the commissioning of ships to search for their mother and father.

“While I can appreciate your frustration, I do understand his reasoning,” Ben said, gently.  “And his willingness to make sacrifices to keep you safe.  Though it seems you have an unique attachment to your home, if I may say so.”

Charlotte smiled fondly. “I do.  It’s wonderful, there.  There is always something happening, some excitement, and yet, if one seeks it, there is always quiet and tranquility to be found as well. It _was_ dark there for a time....while we tried to accept what must be the truth.  Things at home were just returning to relative normalcy, and then Boston decided she had had enough, and we knew we must follow her. Father had always said that when men of Liberty are pushed too far, they would....they _will_ push back, and that when that threshold had been reached, it would be Boston who would lead us, and I suppose he would know.”  He watched the pleasure that spread across her face as she spoke about her home, and was impressed by the poetic reverence with which she spoke of the cause. With each moment, she grew ever more dear to him.

 

A soldier approached, walking in the opposite direction and Ben nodded politely to him. 

Charlotte waited to speak, and when the soldier had passed them and was a safe distance behind, she smiled mischievously “Despite my profound affinity for Virginia, the opportunity to be of assistance to the cause, in however minor a role, which presented itself at the outset of this indefinite visit, is deeply appreciated.” 

Ben shook his head.  “Your role is anything but minor….Charlotte. Your willingness, and your commendable dedication are sincerely praiseworthy.  Personally, I am honored that you would entrust me with your handling.” He felt a thrilling sensation in his chest as he spoke her name aloud. 

She flushed, and looked over at him with a bashful smile. 

“Speaking of such…” She reached into a discreet pocket at the waist of her riding jacket and extracted the two small, sewn notebooks she had stored there. She held them carefully in her hands as they traipsed along the path, and Ben peered with interest at what she clutched so protectively. 

She wondered where to begin, and how.  Her own notebook lay on top, Sukey’s beneath it.  She needed to confess to Ben that Sukey was aware of the task she performed for him, and was in fact complicit in it. She feared his reaction, and was concerned that she would no longer enjoy his full confidence if she revealed her indiscretion.  In truth, Charlotte could not have performed her duty without Sukey’s assistance, and furthermore, if their affection for one another were to develop into a deeper, more meaningful bond, as she hoped it might, there were other bits of knowledge, not entirely common, but otherwise necessary to her narrative, which she would feel dishonest not imparting to him.  Charlotte had admitted to herself, many nights past, as she lay bundled up in bed by a roaring fire, her desperate desire for Benjamin Tallmadge to know and possess all of her.  For this to be rendered actualized, certain intimate details must be revealed.

Instead of explaining outright, she handed him the notebooks, studying his hands as he took them gently from her.  As they walked along in silence, she peered over at him, briefly, noticing that he had opened the first notebook and was leafing through it with what appeared to be bewildered excitement.  His eyes darted from the page to her face as they walked, and she took note of his open mouth, disbelief clear on his face.  Ben continued crunching along the path, with a considerable slowing to his stride, as he flipped rapidly through the pages, both stunned and highly impressed by his sumptuous, clever little spy. 

“You….” He began.  “This is…”

Charlotte stopped, wringing her gloved hands, and turned to face him head on, a startled, unnerved look on her face.  Ben stopped as well, stepping closer to her, and spoke in hushed tones, searching her face, wounded to find her looking so distressed. 

“This information…” he was dumbfounded, an unusual circumstance in which for Benjamin Tallmadge to find himself, and therefore frustrated by his temporary inability to put Charlotte at ease by conveying his elation over having received such a variance of equally valuable intelligence.  He realized that in being so inarticulate he had provided opportunity for her to assume he might be displeased with her.

His expression was so intense that Charlotte was caught between the concern that it suggested she might have made a grave error, and the overwhelming fact of how impossibly attractive she found him.   

Finally, Ben found his words.  “Charlotte….you collected all of this, in such a short time?”  He searched her face, in awe.  He could have placed his hands on her cheeks and rested his forehead against hers, excited as he was, and overwhelmed with the sense of pride he felt in her. She was, to him, utterly remarkable.

“I merely kept my eyes open, Ben.  I thought…anything…that you might be able to use, should be committed to paper.  You see…” she gestured towards the notebook he held with her first finger.  He could smell the faintest hint of sweet floral perfume, and in the light winter breeze, her curls whipped gently about her shoulders. He was captivated.

“…it begins with the catalogue of ships.  Here are the names, when I was able to observe a name, and the dates on which I observed them.  They are all identified by a corresponding numeral.”  Charlotte indicated with her glove each of the elements she spoke of as she described them. 

“Ships with names I could not determine are only identified by their numeral and thereafter described, here, by number of sails, guns, etcetera. On the following pages are a list of places I heard made mention of…and beside them a number of tick marks indicating how many times the place name was mentioned…beside some of the place names are names of individuals or regiments it appears might be associated therewith, as well as, for one or two items, predictions I heard voiced as to what might become of those places, and possible intentions towards them. You know, their wine is of such a fine quality it should be considered a liability” 

Charlotte laughed and reached forward, gently flipping the small pages with some difficulty in her gloved hands, as Ben held the notebook open for her, feather light in his palms.  He was admiring the fullness of her lips, and the curve of her cheeks.

“And _here_ ….you…you’re….not looking….at the page.”  Charlotte bit her bottom lip, worried now, that she had done something wrong. She thought perhaps that she should not have committed all the information to paper, lest someone find it, but she had been so careful in concealing it, she had not thought it of a grave nature.

“No. No, I’m afraid that I am not.” Ben said, breathless. The desire to reach for her that he had felt so strongly when she dismounted beside him only minutes before resurged within him, and he thought how easy it would be for him to encircle her waist with one arm, pressing his hand against her back, and gently stroke her cheek with his opposite thumb, cradling her jaw with his palm as he prepared to kiss her.

“Oh, well, would you like to?”  Charlotte was desperate to finish explaining what she needed to. If he were going to react badly to the news she had to give him, she would rather it happen sooner than later, and she would rather not prolong the process.  As in extracting from a wound a splintered bit of wood, or in the burning off of a leech in the course of bleeding, it was best done all at once “….because, on the page that follows, you’ll see that…”  Charlotte, self-conscious beyond her own comprehension, pointed desperately at the pages.

“I’m afraid....I’m finding it impossible.”  His voice was soft and gentle, despite its tremulous timbre. He was aware that his body language might be slightly indelicate, leaning forward towards her as he was, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull back from Charlotte. He was aware once again of the length and curve of her eyelashes, and the rosy pink flush to her cheeks, though whether she was flushed in reaction to his proximity or as a result of the chill of the winter wind he did not know. 

“Perhaps to the task at hand, Captain?  And, after we’ve finished, we might indulge in mutual admiration. I’d prefer to finish conducting my official business while I yet have my wits about me.”  Charlotte gave him a playful smile and fluttered her eyelashes briefly, to indicate she was not upset in the slightest.

Ben laughed, in spite of himself and the profound embarrassment he felt. “Yes, of course. My….apologies. Please, continue.”

“Here,” Charlotte began, gently, “are expected imports to the colonies, separated into four columns….ships, soldiers, supplies, weaponry. In some cases, I have indicated where these imports are hailing from, when that information was volunteered, and to where the import is destined, if known.  All of the lists, throughout the entire notebook, I’m afraid, are woefully lacking…but I did not wish to arouse suspicion by posing questions which might have been considered outside the realm of what may be appropriate for my position. Instead, I did my best to listen and remember all that I was able.”  She looked up at Ben, hoping for some instruction or direction as to the nature and quality of her work.

Ben scanned through the pages once more, on his own, and looked up at her.

“This is an impressive effort, Charlotte.  I cannot even begin to imagine the potential benefit to our cause that this information holds.  I can also hardly imagine a more advantageous moment for you to have presented this to me, given the task at hand.”  Ben was entirely unaccustomed to the completely unfamiliar experience of being so terribly, irrevocably enraptured with a woman, the prospect rendered all the more befuddling by the notion that she was assisting him, with such a remarkable degree of competence, in his military duties.  He could not wait to disclose to Mr. Sackett what she had brought for them. He had decided that he would tell His Excellency about this additional agent as well, but only when General Scott as was not present to be privy to such information. He expected that General Washington would be as impressed as he, once Ben demonstrated the extent of information that had been gathered under his direction, and once he suggested the possibility that more information, of the same quality, could be obtained in the same fashion, with the help of the same agent.

“I am delighted to hear you say so,” Charlotte said.  Now to the drawings. “There is…more.”  Hesitantly, Charlotte gestured towards the second notebook in Ben’s hands.  He folded the first closed and tucked it inside his coat, turning his attention to the other, which he opened carefully.  He began to walk along the path again, and Charlotte fell in step with him. Inside the tiny book, he found a systematized, organized grouping of drawings, and he looked up at Charlotte once more, hoping for explanation.

“And so, here, beside each rendering, is a corresponding numeral, as in the first book.  So that those ships without names, in addition to their description, written in the previous volume, also have a visual accompaniment.”

Ben was nodding.  “These are….wonderfully detailed.”

“I agree.  And I am afraid I cannot accept that commendation.  I am not the artist.”  Charlotte was again wringing her hands, a dismayed look on her face.

“Whatever do you mean?”  Ben’s heart quickened.  If there had been any breech of security it could mean disaster for all of them, but he could not fathom Charlotte ever undermining their efforts, and thus, he was perplexed.

“It is my sincere desire that there exist no secrets between us,” Charlotte began, looking directly at Ben, her eye contact intense, her manner earnest.

Ben nodded, indicating his agreement, and Charlotte hurried to continue, unsure exactly how he might receive what she was about to reveal to him. She had quickened her pace along the path, without realizing it.  She was aware of the impression that many native Britons had of American Colonials as provincial, rustic types.  She was also aware of the impression that many of those individuals native to the colonies, especially those in the north, in particular those whose beliefs could be called puritanical, had of those in Virginia, the Carolinas and Georgia. What she was about to reveal spoke to a proclivity common enough amongst the landed, plantation owning families with which she was familiar, but which might to Benjamin be unseemly or even shocking, especially given his upbringing as the son of a minister. For Charlotte, it had been a constant truth, so ever present she could not recall a distinct moment when the knowledge had been imparted to her.  Everyone familiar with her family seemed fairly aware of the fact, and indeed she had the impression that it was often a barb used against her father, a bit of knowledge whispered about amongst Tories.  She was certain that Abraham knew.  It was possible that Anna and Caleb were also aware, and that thus perhaps Ben himself may have the same knowledge.  In fact, anyone with acute enough powers of observation might have drawn the same conclusion in observing them together, knowing very little of either woman. But she could not be sure. Charlotte took a breath and steadied herself.

“As such, I need to explain the origin of the drawings.  I came to Setauket with Philip Freedman, who you have just met, Sadie Jacques, and Sukey, the artist whose renderings are in the notebook in your hand.” Charlotte paused for effect. “ Sukey’s mother is Sadie.”  She paused once more and looked over, directly into Ben’s eyes as they walked, that he might appreciate the gravity of what she was imparting to him. 

“…And _Sukey’s_ father is _my_ father.”  Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she watched Ben’s face intently.

“Caleb mentioned only brothers,” Ben’s brow was furrowed, in puzzlement, not in frustration or perturbation. 

Charlotte managed to become distracted for the briefest moment, considering the fact that Ben had apparently made inquires with Caleb in order to obtain further information about her.  Although she now admitted that perhaps it had only been in the course of attempting to ascertain whether or not she was an appropriate candidate for the role of agent that he had sought such information.  It was, however, possible that he had in fact taken a deeper interest in her, one she had fervently hoped he would.  She prayed whatever interest he may have harbored had not suddenly evaporated in tandem with the revelation she had just imparted, but she reminded herself that anyone who could not accept her family circumstances was a man she had admired in error.

  
“She’s a slave woman, like her mother.” Charlotte murmured. “It was…before my parents became acquainted.” 

“Oh…” Ben began.  “Oh. I…I see.”  Captain Tallmadge was taken aback by both the courage and the dignity she displayed in laying bare a piece of information that could so easily be interpreted in an unfavorable way, had he been a different sort of man. She was placing faith in him, he realized, and assuming that he was a man of integrity.

Charlotte was afraid she might have made him uncomfortable, in referencing her father’s appetites, however circuitously and unintentionally she may have done so. It could not be helped, given the circumstances of Sukey’s birth. 

“I realize that it is slightly…indecorous for me to discuss such things. And I can imagine that you must be quite concerned…and even perhaps….angry with me…for having revealed to another the nature and purpose of my mission and under whose authority it is furthered. But I assure you I am capable of very little without my sister.  We are of one heart, and one mind.  She is as ardent a patriot as I.  Well, nearly.” Charlotte laughed, in spite of the concern she felt.  “As your agent, I disclose this information that you might act with full discretion, should you feel that what you have learned compromises my ability to perform my duties, or should you now find that it has changed your opinion of my appropriateness to the task. And, if the possibility yet exists for me to hold promise for you in any other realm, I offer this information that you might comprehend fully where my loyalties lie….with my dreams for this new nation, and with my family.  My _whole_ family. Where I go, she goes. Everywhere.  Always.  Nothing is ever going to change that, Captain.” 

Ben was deeply moved by her honesty, and her willingness to render herself so vulnerable to him. Had she been a different sort of woman, she could easily have claimed credit for the drawings herself, and thus, by the same action both saved her own skin and proved a dishonest agent, and Ben might have been none the wiser.  She had volunteered of her own free will to protect the virtue of their relationship as handler and spy by disclosing the origin of the illustrations, even when it presented the possibility for a potentially unpleasant consequence or reprimand. It was the kind of rectitude he hoped for in a wife.  He scolded himself for prematurely attributing that possibility to their budding acquaintance, as he considered it a gross presumption on his part, and yet, of all the roles Charlotte could fill for him, increasingly, that of wife was the one he desired her to fill most.

When he spoke his voice was tender and gentle. 

“Charlotte. I find it very difficult to imagine myself angry with you.  I have nothing but admiration for the allegiance you have demonstrated towards…your…Sukey. And I am moved by the loyalty you clearly demonstrate to our cause.  Please know that what you have shared with me can only serve to endear you further to me.  You are a valuable asset…to me, and to the Continental Army.  Perhaps even more so than Abraham.  But you must _not_ reveal the purpose of your actions on my behalf to anyone else.”  He stopped then, turning to face her, that he might look at her with a slightly stern countenance, to convey the severity of his message.

Charlotte’s heart leapt.  His authority…his command were so…thrilling, so intoxicating.  She wished to demonstrate her willingness, and her desire to submit to his requests, and to his will. 

“Nor would I, Ben.  I swear it. I did not tell her outright. But we are rarely apart, and as such, I was unable to conceal all that I wished.  Please, forgive me, for not explaining my circumstances fully when first we met at Black Point.”  She looked up at him, worry marring her face as she furrowed her brow and twisted her mouth in concern.

Ben’s eyes were kind, his voice reassuring, but he spoke quickly, without thinking.

“Darl…” He stopped, hoping the shock was not evident on his face. He was incensed. Thank God he had caught himself.  He insisted that he had meant to say Charlotte and had only slipped.  What sort of impassioned mess had he been reduced to? He must regain his composure if he hoped that she might retain any respect she might have for his masculinity, or he for his own.  He corrected himself deliberately, but she had certainly heard what had left his mouth. The little flicker of hope on her face had not gone unnoticed, and he thrilled at the way her eyes had widened and her mouth had dropped open in what had apparently been excited rapture.

“Charlotte.  Please.  Worry not any further on the subject.  It is for _your_ safety that I ask this. _My_ affiliations are known.  If you reveal yourself to be an agent for the cause you place yourself in grave peril. Your role and the missions associated therewith are dangerous enough, and I often…question my own judgment in allowing you to place yourself at risk in this way.” Ben paused, taking her in again. He was memorizing her, studying her the way he had the classical languages he had studied at Yale, that he might conjure her ever clearer when next they were apart.  But the ever-present threat that loomed like a wraith about her in his absence stunted his full appreciation of her countenance, as he was reminded that before the war was ended they would again be apart, and he would be powerless to protect her. “They…they could _hang_ you Charlotte.”

Ben rocked back on the heels of his boots, wiping one of his palms on his breeches, desperate and slightly winded despite having experienced no exertion. Hanged.  Her beautiful neck, choked by a fraying rope instead of caressed by his gentle hands.  He felt ill at the very thought, his stomach churning, a terrible crawling feeling shuddering across his skin.

She was tremendously relieved that her confession had changed nothing if not for the better, and now wished to allay any concerns that he might have regarding his complicity in her risk taking.

“Ben,” she said, speaking quietly, sensing his distress.  “It is a risk that I chose to take.  I fear what may happen to us all if we do not fight, far more than I fear the Tory hangman.” She reached out, carefully, and for the briefest moment placed her gloved hand on his forearm.

Ben watched her, reveling in the sensation of her gentle touch. “You may be the bravest woman I have ever known.” 

“Would that I _felt_ brave, Ben. I’m…. frightened…all the time. But I fear the shackles of her tyranny, and the dark cloud of the empire’s looming shadow, above all else.” She took a deep breath and straightened herself, pushing her shoulders even further back, attempting to embolden herself by the very action.

Ben simply nodded at her, too moved by her words, too overwhelmed with affection to speak.

They walked along in pleasant silence. 

“I would very much like for you to meet her, if you would so wish,” Charlotte said, as they rounded a corner through the trees. 

“I would, indeed. She attends you in all things, I gather?”  Ben asked.

“She does,” Charlotte said. 

“You love her a great deal.”  Ben observed.

Charlotte nodded.  “Oh yes. Very much.”  She smiled over at him, but for a moment her face seemed troubled, and he watched her intently.  “And she…she _promised_ our father that she’d take care of me as she always has until he came back….and then he _never came back_.” Charlotte’s voice warbled a bit. “She’s saved me more times than I can count, most often from myself.  And _I_ promised him, too.”

Ben turned, regimental in the precision of his movement as he gave her his vow. “As far as it is within my power, I intend for the full possible extent of my protection to be afforded you in every possible place you might find yourself.”

“I welcome it, with my sincere gratitude,” Charlotte said, bowing her head demurely.

“It is my fervent hope that perhaps one day it might be provided at a much… closer proximity.” He tilted his head forward, speaking low.

“I can think of nothing that would bring me greater happiness.” Charlotte looked up at him adoringly, and the small, winsome smile on his handsome face he gave her in return, accompanied by the flush thereupon, warmed Charlotte’s heart considerably. “And no finer man to accomplish the task.” 

He nodded at her, in thanks, his heart swelling once again. They walked on in a few moments of silence, and then a question occurred to Ben.  “May I ask how you managed to arrive in New Jersey with such speed?”

“I lied to my Tory host.  Quite callously, I’m afraid.”  Charlotte laughed. “I had a standing invitation from a childhood friend from Virginia, lately of New Jersey.  She is to be married, soon.  I was of the impression that she yet remained at the home of her cousins, but found upon my arrival that she has moved into the home she will share with her husband.  Her father is unwell, and as such her intended invited he and her brother to come and stay at the home he provided for them, even before the wedding.  The excuse I offered my hostess in York City was that I was to be of assistance with the wedding plans, but thankfully it appears that my presence, and that of Sukey and Philip, will be of benefit, both with respect to her father’s care, and in the matter of setting up the household. That is where Sukey is now, with Martha.”

“So the fellow I just met…”  Ben wondered.

“He escorts us when we travel, to care for the horses and to make an additional impression along with whoever might be driving my carriage, lest blackguards have any designs against my property or person.  And whenever I go riding any distance, he accompanies me, for my protection.  Though I can happily say it's wonderful to be in a place where I feel I do not need protection.  I feel....being here, that I am among family once again.  My heart was alight this morning, to have seen so many Continental uniforms.”

 

Ben stopped and turned towards Charlotte once again.  “Imagine then how I felt, to have been so pleasantly surprised by my lovely agent.” The smile he gave her was tender and warm.

 

Charlotte trembled, despite the warmth of her riding habit. Emboldened, she considered how brief their time together in New Jersey might be, and decided to address a topic it may have taken them months of traditional courtship to approach. 

“Ben….if you look at me, in the way you are now…I might come to believe you have certain intentions towards me, and if I allow myself the indulgence of believing so….only to find I was deluding myself….I might never recover.” She chuckled softly, to indicate that her last statement had been slightly exaggerated, in order to integrate a bit of humor, but her eyes were sincere all the same.

Ben’s brow furrowed. “You should believe that my intentions…” Ben sighed.  “I feel forward…expressing such things.  I would not wish to offend, in my vehemence….but I have the most sincere of intentions, and the highest of aspirations towards the further development of what appears, if I may make the assumption…to be…. a mutual affection.”  He watched her face for a reaction, and he was euphoric when her mouth split open in a bright, wide smile. 

She spoke then with a lightness to her tone that he had not heard before.

“Well, Now that you have managed to both allay my fears _and_ delight me with your aspirations, which you should know I _earnestly_ share…Would you now consent to relating to me exactly…. _How_ you managed to fall into the river?” She bit her bottom lip and smiled, watching his face, hoping to impress upon him that she was not criticizing his nautical skills, simply being curious. 

 

Ben gave an exasperated sigh with a half smile, shaking his head.  He began walking again, and Charlotte followed.

 

“I would have preferred you to remain ignorant of such an…embarrassing transgression” 

 

Charlotte giggled, covering her mouth with her glove as it broke open in a grin.  She then pursed her lips, her smile remaining, dimples prominent on her cheeks.

 

“I was…. attempting to prevent a rather valuable swivel gun from tipping overboard,” Ben admitted, bashfully.

 

“I would say, as a weapon, that it is YOU captain, who are far more valuable than any swivel gun.” She raised her eyebrows and gave him a coquettish look, and Ben’s mouth dropped open slightly, his inclination to seize Charlotte and place his mouth upon hers stronger than ever.

“You must promise to be more careful.  You might have both perished _and_ lost us the war…each of which, independent of the other, would have broken my heart.  I must admit, begrudgingly, that the former might have done so more successfully than the latter.  Though I expect that to remain between us.”

She gave him a mischievous grin, pinching the tip of her tongue between her teeth. Ben drew in a ragged breath. He was aware of a sudden sheen of sweat emerging on the surface of his skin, absorbed by her scarf, which, as ever, was pressed flush against his bare chest, secured beneath his shirt and his waistcoat.  How he would have liked to seize her in his arms and back her carefully into the nearest tree, to pin her against the trunk and kiss her breathless, until her knees grew weak and she was held aloft by only the weight of his body against hers.

 

 “I…” Ben breathed.

 

“We must teach you to swim, mustn’t we?” Charlotte asked with a raise of her eyebrows. 

 

His desire inflamed, Ben thought he must change the subject or else remain tortured by his impulses.

 

“Caleb told me that you swim. However…did you learn that?” He asked.

 

“Well, our farm borders the river. And it can get quite hot there in the summer.  My brothers taught me, when I was little.  It was appropriate, when I was a girl, and even now that it isn’t I can’t seem to stay away from the water.  It cause my mother considerable vexation.  In fact, I caused both of them considerable vexation.  I was stubborn....And I was....willful.”

“You _were_ willful?” Ben asked playfully, smiling warmly to indicate that he was appreciative of her willfulness, and that he was simply having a bit of fun with her.

Charlotte laughed aloud.

Ben was about to continue, in order explain that he had meant no disrespect, when Charlotte spoke.

“That was entirely fair.” She leaned towards him, speaking conspiratorially.  “Is it sinful that I like it when you tease me?”

Ben flushed. “I…no, I suppose not.” There was his desire, surfacing once again.  If he did not meet it at the end of a saber or a bayonet, this woman would be the death of him.

“But how did you know?” She asked.

“You are here, are you not?  And besides, Caleb calls you Troublemaker.”

Charlotte sniffed in mock agitation, clearly amused and not upset.

“Hm!  Caleb.  That _dastardly_ whaler.”  Ben smiled over at her, and Charlotte continued, in jest, meaning to suggest to Ben how fond she was of Caleb.  “He's rather like a whale isn't he?  Expertly navigating the water, eating massive quantities of food, intermittently bellowing at his cohorts, blowing great bursts of hot air out of a hole in his head....”

Ben laughed aloud, placing his hand over his mouth as Charlotte had, afraid that he might be perceived as undignified, but he had the sense that Charlotte was a woman around whom he could feel at ease, and so he was somewhat less than concerned. She laughed as well.

 

“I say that in jest. He’s very dear to me. Though not so dear as his best friend. None has ever been.” Before she smiled at him, she gave him an earnest, meaningful look.

 

“If I may be so bold…” Ben began. “I wish to tell you that I find it does me a great deal of good to see you.  You’ve ease my vexation considerably.  I feel a great weight has been lifted from me....one I've carried a great long while.”

 

Charlotte’s face was empathetic and marred by concern, and she stopped abruptly, waiting for him to do the same. When he did, she looked directly into his eyes, her expression earnest.

“ _Benjamin_ …if ever you need, you must not hesitate to confide in me. Promise that you will?” she begged.

 

“I will, Charlotte” Ben said. “I _wish_ to.  I regret, however, that at the moment, I must return to the business at hand, but would you consent to accompany me into headquarters?  There is someone who has requested an introduction.  Mr. Nathaniel Sackett.  He’s a rather funny little fellow, and he’s a master of tradecraft, invited here by His Excellency. I like him a great deal, and I have confided in him concerning your status as agent.  He’s rather…enthusiastic.”

Charlotte noticed that they had circled around and were back in proximity of the building at which she had first arrived. 

 

Charlotte thrilled at the thought of entering the building where His Excellency’s business was conducted, especially in Ben’s company.  “Of course,” she assured him.  “I would be honored.”

 

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

They crested the last hill on the path, leveling out with the large white buildings outside which they had met.  Ben indulged in the opportunity to imbibe the beauty that was Charlotte by his side, thinking it might likely be a few days before he saw her again. He was delighted, however, to have learned in the course of their discussion that she planned to stay in New Jersey, for however brief a period, that he might find himself able to continue entertaining such expectations for seeing her with some regularity. As they came into view of a greater number of soldiers and officers, Ben noted with a mix of envy and pride the way that she seemed to capture and hold the gazes of the men in their presence. There was not the slightest indication that she was intimidated, even surrounded by so many unfamiliar soldiers with such a collectively apparent inability to mask their interest. She walked on, even flickering her gaze about in such a fashion that the more persistent men in question looked away, friendly in the cordial smile on her face, but nevertheless bold enough to shame them in her awareness of their scrutiny. 

It was his approval she had been concerned about, he realized, and his alone. A small, satisfied smile emerged on his face.  Truly she cared naught for their opinions of her.  He watched her as she grinned openly at a young boy treating the skin of his drum with a mixture of oil and fat, and observed the way her comforting expression caused the lonely looking boy to grin as though he had seen a family member familiar to him.  Her heart might be that of a patriot, he thought, but her grace and carriage were that of a queen.

“Oh!” Charlotte exclaimed, startling Ben slightly. 

With all that had been on her mind, she had only just then remembered. She noticed when she looked to Ben that he appeared fully attentive, and it pleased her, the constant, undivided attention that he gave her.  He, for his own part, was appreciative of the very same, which she, without fail, devoted to him in kind.

“I cannot believe I had forgotten to mention it,” she explained.  She lifted her left arm to bring into view the inside of her forearm, and drew back the sleeve of her riding jacket with her right hand, exposing the handle of the whale tooth knife Ben had given her.  His gift from his father, and his gift to her.  His heart filled with ardor.

“Thank you, truly…for this.” she said, her tone warm and sincere. “To have learned of its origin, and to know that you would entrust me with the care of an object so dear was an honor, and one deeply appreciated.” 

She smiled and gently pulled her sleeve back. 

“You are most welcome,” he said, graciously.  “Caleb…was aware of my intentions to present it to you myself, but he used his judgment, quite well, I think, in sending it along to you, especially given the journey you undertook to get here.  It’s…. for your protection, in my absence.  Though it is my ardent desire that you never find yourself in a position to use it.”

“I too hope that I never have to use it,” Charlotte replied, nodding. When she looked up at him once more, she exuded confidence, as she continued.

“…but should the situation arise, I will not hesitate.”  Her face betrayed no fear, her voice was iron itself.

Ben nodded his approval once, wondering by what impossible grace he had come to know her, and thinking of what his father might say about the Lord’s plans for all his children. 

As quickly as such a pleasant thought entered his mind, one equally unpleasant accosted him.

“So Lieutenant McKenna….” Ben began the sentence, hoping Charlotte would finish it.

“Yes,” Charlotte said.  She whispered the remainder of her sentence “…she did.” 

Ben suddenly recalled.  Charlotte had said “Tabitha,” when speaking to him upon her arrival.  He had noticed, but had been far too consumed with the particulars of the interaction to ask Charlotte how it was that she had known.

“You were….told?”  He asked in disbelief. Her behavior, particularly as of late, was such that Ben couldn’t imagine anyone mistaking Tabitha for a woman in either her uniform or in a man’s civilian clothes, especially as it was far from difficult for her to play the part of soldier, and would be a challenge at best for her to present as a lady. 

Charlotte shook her head, and continued in her description, utilizing male pronouns that those within earshot, though they were few and far between, might not harken their ears towards anything irregular about the nature of their conversation. 

“His presentation is remarkably authentic.  It took some time for me to deduce that something was amiss. He found me suffering the event that was Major John Andre’s New Year’s Eve ball, and upon seeking a dance to obtain a proximity in which we might exchange words discreetly, I was alarmed when he defaulted to” she whispered again “the ladies’ part.”

Ben raised his eyebrows and huffed out a breath of air in bewilderment.

Charlotte continued, hoping to impress upon Ben that it was with considerable effort that she had ascertained Tabitha’s identity, and not through any fault of the woman’s own.  Though it appeared that she had no fondness whatsoever for Charlotte, the Virginian yet respected Tabitha’s commitment to her chosen profession, and the continued courage that life as a soldier must require for those who were secure in their identities, never mind for those who were attempting to live a lie that might result in their death if they were caught.  She knew something of fearing a noose should her true constitution be discovered.

“I combined that irregularity with observations made later in the evening.  I grew up alongside brothers, as you know, and have yet to meet a young man of that age with such soft cheeks, even after a good shave, or such delicate hands. It was only, however, upon closer examination that I questioned the Lieutenant on the subject directly.”

“Did he at least….deny?” Ben asked, exasperated.

“Oh certainly.  Most vehemently.” Charlotte assured him, nodding.  She continued,

“A sincere effort was made to gain access to the intelligence I had gathered, and a sincerer effort still to order me to surrender it when I refused.”

Ben sighed, embarrassed and disappointed with how the entire operation had been conducted in his crippling hypothermia, yet grateful all the same to Tabitha and Caleb for acting in his stead in such a way as to ensure that Charlotte had been informed.  He would not himself have asked them to notify her on his behalf, not wishing to worry her, or put any of them at risk, but he was nevertheless indebted to them for having understood the profound nature of his attachment such that they felt it necessary to involve her. 

“When I refused to comply, he even…attempted to assert himself as my temporary handler due to the event of your unfortunate incapacitation. It was rather charming, comical as I found it.”  Charlotte paused and looked up at Ben, her mouth slightly parted, a hint of a cheeky smile on her face before she spoke. 

“As if I would obey anyone else.” 

Standing in the surf, Ben had been knocked off his feet by a wave as a young boy, dragged under and rolled about by the tide.  He felt a similar sensation now, and spoke only when he felt he had resurfaced.

“I respect and appreciate the fine use of your impeccable judgment, in my absence,” Ben said. 

“Willful, remember?”  Charlotte laughed softly and grinned at Ben, a thrill coursing through her core when he returned it in kind. 

“I do,” he said, fondly.

 

They had nearly reached the building outside which Ben had been standing when Charlotte had arrived, when their mutual attention was captured by the efficient movements of a gentleman as he descended the stairs with a hurried refinement.  He wore no uniform, but was rather dapperly outfitted in a finely tailored coat beneath his tasteful cloak, the hem of which ghosted along behind him on the crusting of snow as he swept across the small yard before the building.  With a nod of thanks, he took from a soldier the reins of a coal black steed, the gelding’s lustrous coat nearly blue in the winter sunlight. He mounted with admirable fluidity, landing gently atop his mount.  Charlotte realized that Ben had stopped in place on the path, and was watching the man with barely veiled admiration.  She turned to him, asking quietly.

“Who is he?” 

“I-I _believe_ that to be Alessandro Ross.” 

Charlotte tipped her head to the side to indicate that she was not certain who the man was, embarrassed at her lack of knowledge, given that Ben seemed so impressed by him.

“An expert on tradecraft.  A colonial, educated at Cambridge.  Of the tremendous wealth of documents Mr. Sackett has tasked me with committing to permanent knowledge, he is the author of a considerable number.” 

Charlotte turned her attention to Mr. Ross once again, with peaked interest. The gentleman in question adjusted the cocked hat on his head, and she noted that he was dark of hair, with golden undertones to his warm complexion, and features that would, to many a woman in the colonies, be quite appealing.  He had a kind, open face, and she was reminded instantly of the youngest of her elder brothers, Edward.  Seated atop his horse, he made quite the impressive presentation.  When he turned his head, adjusting the reins in his hands, he nodded to them both, and Charlotte noted the way his entire face brightened with the small smile that emerged on his face.  She could not help but smile and dip her head and return.  As quickly as he had emerged and mounted his horse, the man was off, squeezing his horse into a walk, and then a canter, navigating the paths of headquarters with the adeptness of a master horseman.

 

“Right this way,” Ben said, gesturing towards the staircase from whence Mr. Ross had come. 

Charlotte followed beside him, the thrill she had felt before resurfacing, resurging throughout her as they closed the distance between themselves so they could walk side by side up the staircase.  The stone-faced soldiers on either side of the door appeared to neither blink nor breathe, and Charlotte noted the impeccable state of their uniforms. They had been carefully selected for this purpose, she imagined.  It must be few indeed who might be granted the privilege and honor of guarding what was clearly one of the more important buildings on the grounds of His Excellency’s headquarters.   As Ben opened the door and gallantly swept inside, turning about to hold the door open for her with his left hand as he extended his right arm with a gracious flourish to indicate she should follow him inside, Charlotte took a moment to nod at both of the guards with a small, friendly small on her face.

“Gentlemen,” said in acknowledgement as she stepped inside.  She hoped she soon might have the opportunity to revisit headquarters, and was desirous of developing a good rapport with everyone on site, whether or not their duties permitted them to address her in return.

It was blissfully warm inside the building, and Charlotte peered about, finding the hues of the walls, the trim, and the curtains to be quite familiar to her. They resembled some of the rooms in her family home in Virginia, if rather sensibly austere by comparison. Appropriate for a military location, she assumed.   Pleasant, yet official. 

“If you would follow me this way, Miss Adams,” Ben invited. 

He had reverted to the more appropriate manner of addressing Charlotte by her surname for propriety’s sake, given the fact that they were no longer alone, and now seemingly on properly sanctioned business.

Charlotte had been completely convinced that the word she murmured in reply had been under her breath and most certainly inaudible, but Ben’s mouth parted in a satisfied smile as he lead the way down the hallway, his very blood seeming to tingle with elation as he perceived the faintest whisper.

“Anywhere.”

“Mr. Sackett?”  Ben called. “Our guest has arrived.”

The sound of a chair scraping against the wood floor in a nearby room accompanied that of the shuffling of papers.  Moments later, a plucky, studious looking little fellow appeared around a corner at the end of the hall, and Charlotte was instantly charmed.  Curly haired and bespectacled, with an inquisitive air about him and the hint of a potential for great wit, the man before her looked at her with shining, intelligent eyes.  The word that came to mind was “perceptive” and she felt comforted in the impression that she need only act herself and he would cognize her quickly and fully. Ben and Charlotte stopped side by side to speak with him in the hall.     
 “Mr. Sackett, may I present, the….Miss Charlotte Cornelia Adams.  My…trusted agent,” Ben said, gesturing towards her.

Charlotte lowered her eyes and her head in turn, dipping into an easy, modish curtsey.  Mr. Sackett placed a hand on his belly and bowed forward respectfully.

“Charmed, young lady….truly charmed,” he intoned, placing his hands in his waistcoat pockets, looking altogether satisfied with Benjamin’s apparent discernment.   

“As am I, Mr. Sackett.  It is a great pleasure.” Charlotte gave him an amicable, familial smile. 

Ben reached inside his coat and produced the notebooks Charlotte had given him, looking at her first with a questioning look, proceeding to hand them to Mr. Sackett only when she gave him a few swift, encouraging nods of assurance.

 

“Miss Adams has brought with her some intelligence from York City,” Ben explained. “Quite likely the most valuable we have received throughout the entirety of the war.”  He looked at Charlotte then, his eyes roving for the briefest moment over her form and meeting hers with an intense gaze laden with both respect and desire. 

 

Mr. Sackett raised his eyebrows at Charlotte as he perused the contents of the documents, flipping the pages, his attention darting back and forth between the words themselves and their scribe. 

 

“This is excellent reconnaissance, if it proves reliable.” He continued to peruse. “With your permission, Captain Tallmadge, and yours, of course, Miss Adams, I propose that I might examine these documents at length, and if you would grant me a few hours audience the day after next, I should like to interview you concerning the content, and your methods,” he gave a friendly smile to indicate that he was not challenging her integrity or her competence, but was, rather, interested to know how it was she had gone about performing her duties for her handler. 

 

Charlotte took no offense, and was in fact, the more time she spent in his presence, reminded ever more keenly of her brother’s beloved pet tortoise, which endeared Mr. Sackett to her ever further. 

 

“I have no objection, provided Miss Adams is amenable to the suggestion,” Ben assured them.  She was glad Ben was speaking, as it offered her the excuse to look directly at him, as opposed to covertly, the way she had been, of the corner of her eye. 

 

She nodded, once again, with the same enthusiasm. 

“I am. Most ardently. I am at your service, gentlemen. I am compelled by sense of duty to serve the cause to the best of my ability, and therefore exited by the prospect of obtaining guidance under your expert supervision and direction.” She lowered her head demurely to show her deference, but caught Ben’s eye coquettishly and intentionally as she lifted her chin once more.  

 

Ben took a deep breath and exhaled as slowly as he possibly could, besotted entirely.

Mr. Sackett perked up, inspired by her enthusiasm.  He had hoped for a receptive pupil and was pleasantly surprised by this most unlikely of candidates.  Indeed, the objective of the meetings in which he himself had been participating with Captain Tallmadge, General Scott, and His Excellency over the past few days were all in effort to ascertain the potential that might be budding for a fully operational branch of espionage agents. The girl before him had displayed a considerable amount of promise, both by the Captain’s brief report and by the impression she currently gave, in addition to the adeptness that was evidenced by the documentation Sackett now held in his hands.  Noting that she was considerably comely, polished, and gracious, Nathaniel understood the Captain’s apparently correct assumption that she might flit about under a guise of social frivolity with little consequence and ample opportunity for reconnaissance.  In order to deduce whether this was in fact so, he must have occasion to utilize his skills in determining her true utility.  He hoped very much to have the opportunity to nurture her ambition and harness her apparent acumen. 

“Very well!  Sackett said. “Noon, shall we say?” He proposed.

Ben turned to her, watching the way she interacted with the curious little fellow.

“That would be most agreeable,” she said. 

 Mr. Sackett bowed once more before excusing himself, “A pleasure, Miss Adams, to be certain.”

 She tipped her head forward and bent her knees again in a show of respect. “Likewise Mr. Sackett.” 

 With a nod to Charlotte, Mr. Sackett turned and made his way back down the hallway.

“Until then...Captain?” Charlotte asked, looking up at Ben, giving him a playful, bashful little grin.

“Yes,” he said softly, his heart thrumming in his chest as he soaked up the naked admiration present in her expression.  “I’ll see you out.” 

 They walked back towards the door and Ben surged forth in commanding strides to open it for her, sweeping his arm forward again to allow Charlotte the opportunity to pass through first. She awaited him on the landing, and nodded to Philip, whose attention she had captured several dozen yards away. Ben joined her, closing the door, and they walked together, side by side, down the stairs, alternating between looking ahead at where they were going and at each other, trading soft smiles and meaningful glances back and forth.  Neither spoke, but neither felt the need, satiated as they were by simply reveling in the sensation of being side by side. 

Philip had tethered his own horse to a tree by his reins, and approached Charlotte at the bottom of the steps with Powhatan’s reins in one hand and an empty crate in the other.  Ben waited, uncertain what his role should be in assisting Charlotte, or if he should have one, given that Philip was there to help her. When Philip stopped, the chestnut gelding followed suit, and Philip placed the crate at the horse’s left side beside his stirrup, holding out Charlotte’s reins to her.  She placed them over Powhatan’s head, and drew down his stirrup, gathering her reins together in her left hand.  With a remarkable fluidity that caught Ben by surprise, as he knew few Dragoons who would be so adept at such an action considering the height of Powhatan’ withers, Charlotte stepped up with her right foot onto the crate, placed the ball of her left foot in her stirrup and with a bounce on the ball of her right foot swung herself up into the saddle, landing softly astride Powhatan, then swinging her right leg up and over the pommel to rest it over her leaping horn.  Philip removed the crate and went to fetch his own mount.  Charlotte adjusted her the skirt of her riding habit, arranging it carefully and modestly about her.  She was relieved she had been able to mount without any garment-related incidents, and when she had righted herself and situated her reins the way she wanted them, she looked down at the ground to find Ben peering up at her with a gentle smile.

“It was my sincere pleasure to see you again, Miss Adams,” he murmured. 

“And mine, Captain,” she said, flushing a bit. 

He stepped a bit closer, placing his hand on Powhatan’s side and giving the horse a gentle, reassuring pat.  “I shall eagerly await our next meeting.” 

Charlotte gave him an adventurous little smile.  “Your eagerness is well matched.” 

Philip drew up beside her on his horse and she nodded to him to indicate that she was ready to leave. 

Ben stepped back with a gracious bow to her, and Charlotte lowered her head, keeping her eyes on the buttons of Ben’s waistcoat, for the most part, though to herself she admitted to glancing lower, raising her eyes to meet his only when she felt she had lowered her gaze with sufficient measure and duration as to indicate her intense respect.  She smiled at him once again, her dimples appearing once more on her face, and he returned the expression, relishing in his one last opportunity, for the moment, to appreciate her beauty.  It was, he believed, beyond compare.  

As she nodded to Philip and they urged their horses, in tandem, into a canter, Ben walked slowly back to the stairs, glancing back at her fading form as often as he might, and noted that his scholastic partner in tradecraft had joined him in seeing Charlotte off.  He came to stand beside him at the foot of the steps. 

Mr. Sackett stuck out his lower jaw and pushed up his lower lip in pleasant surprise at Ben. 

“ _Good Work,_ Captain Tallmadge.” He shook his head, clicking his tongue, ruminating on the many possibilities now at hand.  

Ben smirked, his complacency for a moment evident on his face. “Yes, Sir. She’s rather…incredible, isn’t she?”

“You know,” Sackett mused, “this is truly uncharted territory for us all.” 

“In what way, Mr. Sackett?” Ben asked, tipping his head in interest at the smaller man.

“Well…of all the literature available concerning tradecraft there is not the faintest indication of the proper course of action when it becomes apparent that a handler is _in love_ with his agent.” He raised his eyebrows, wiggling them with a bit of mischief. 

 Ben furrowed his brows at the man in wounded shock at the notion his affection had been so painfully obvious, and shook his head in slight embarrassment as Mr. Sackett began to chuckle, turning back to ascend the stairs and enter General Washington’s headquarters once more, tremendously pleased with himself.


	28. Chapter 28

**Virginia, 1760**

Lightening.  And the grumble of thunder.  Between the canopy posts at the end of her bed sat Charlotte, feeling small. Knees tucked up against her chest inside her nightgown, she hugged her shins, arms clutched protectively around her legs.  It was not the lightening that frightened her.  August’s youngest child had always enjoyed storms.  But having awoken, as she often did, she had spent her time waiting for second sleep instead of rising, and could not keep her mind from the tales she had heard earlier in the evening.  Nestled covertly against the wall outside William and Teddy’s bedchamber before bedtime, she had heard them, and their guests, brothers Nathaniel and Edward, huddled in secret consort, presenting, in a competition of sorts, the most frightening ghost stories they had collected since last they convened to share. Youngest of the five children, and quite possibly the most imaginative, Charlotte was expressly forbidden by brothers, parents, and house slaves alike to bear witness to these proceedings, or to eavesdrop in the way she had so brazenly done this night. She had been discovered by Sukey who, with a disapproving look and fists mounted to hips, raised one hand from her side and simply pointed in the designated direction, to which Charlotte responded by rousing herself from her slight crouch and sheepishly trudging back to her own bedroom.  By the abundant candlelight of a house aglow with fire and warmth, and bustling with activity, the stories were thrilling and spine chilling, a rather delightful sensation when experienced in the relative safety offered by the wakeful presence of others whose protection Charlotte was unconditionally afforded. But now, quite awake, and feeling quite alone despite the populace of the home and grounds in and upon which she resided, the stories she relished and the stormy weather she delighted in served to wreak a kid of menacing havoc upon that imagination for which she was known. In the next, brief flash, the branches of the enormous oak outside Charlotte’s bedroom were cast in shadow through the generous windows seated in the several pairs of French doors leading to the porch outside.  Spindly, skeletal shapes were instantly illuminated in the darkness across the glossy wooden floor. To her left, in the ornate brick hearth, tiny embers yet blazed from the fire Sukey had stoked and loaded with logs when she had tucked little Charlotte into bed.

“Now you gonna have trouble sleeping, and it won’t be nobody’s fault but yours,” Sukey had scolded as she pulled back Charlotte’s thick, down stuffed bedcovers. 

Dutifully crawling into position in the center of the absurdly large bed, given her size, Charlotte tucked her little legs beneath the soft cotton sheets as she asked,

“Was there really a woman who drowned her children in the James?  Edward said she killed herself not long after, and now her ghost wanders the riverbank looking for new-”

She stopped abruptly when she caught Sukey’s stern eye. She pursed her lips and wriggled downward to place her head on her pillow and settle in on her side. Seated on her right hip, Sukey leaned in to draw the bedcovers around little Charlotte, tucking them up over her shoulder.  She smoothed Charlotte’s hair, tucking it behind her ear, and leaned forward to kiss her temple. A log in the hearth popped loudly. Charlotte smiled, dimple-faced, up at Sukey.

“Good night!” She said.

“Good night, baby.” Sukey replied. She leaned forward and cupped her hand behind the candle in its holder on Charlotte’s nightstand, blowing it out with a quick burst of air from her lips.  When she departed, closing the door behind her, the room was cloaked in darkness, but for the low, pleasant light of the crackling fire, and Charlotte fell asleep to the sounds of a household readying for bed.

 

When Charlotte had awoken, the house was silent, and in turning about in attempt to establish a comfortable position, she found herself restless and quite awake.  As she lay on her back, staring at the ceiling of her canopy, Charlotte anxiously wiggled her toes, her eyes darting here and there into the corners of her darkened bedroom.  Sleepless, as her mind wandered, she was reminded of those creatures whose tales she had overheard that night, likely to be roaming about at such an hour as this, able to appear at will and descend upon their chosen victim before a child like herself could utter the strangled scream she would hope might summon her protectors. She could hide her face in her mountains of bedcovers, retreat beneath them towards the foot of the bed, and hope, should they manifest, that she would not be seen.  But Charlotte was more frightened of waiting fall prey to an unseen phantom than she was of meeting her potential assailant face to face. And so, with a deep, determined breath she bolstered her courage, pushing the covers away from her, and scrambled to the end of the bed, where she perched, tucked in against herself, scanning the room, and listening.  It was not uncommon for father, ever lively and possessed of boundless energy, to leave his chambers between first and second sleep, and proceed to the prep kitchen, or to his office, in search of sustenance or distraction of some kind. If she heard him about the house, Charlotte planned to seek him out, confident she might be permitted to sit with him a spell as he warmed mugs of milk and honey for them both. Perhaps then she might follow him to his study, where he would impart aloud what he was reading as he sat in his armchair with William Stith, Robert Beverly, William Douglass, or Joseph Addison, his daughter across from him, perched attentively on his footrest.

But the minutes passed, first five, and then ten, judging by the movement of the hands on the clock on the mantle, to which Charlotte turned with compulsive regularity.  When the thunder began, Charlotte was comforted, as her father had told her once that the sound seemed to him like the Lord above them clearing his throat. But as the lightening began, and the strange, unpredictable shadows that appeared took sinister shapes, Charlotte felt her heart thudding inside her chest, much like the sensation beneath her feet whenever she was passed by a group of galloping horses.  Many more minutes passed, and still no sounds of life about the house.  Unoccupied space for the dead to encroach upon.  Charlotte dropped her legs, allowing them to dangle off the bed, and waiting for the lightening to illuminate the room, she examined her surroundings in the brief offering of light.  Seeing no immediate threat, she pushed off the bed, landing bare footed on the burnished hardwood floor. With an agile scamper forward, she snatched her periwinkle knit shawl from its place on the seat of one of the two armchairs by the fire, and swung it around her shoulders. Darting towards the door, she turned the knob on the rim lock and swung it wide, scanning the ornate upstairs hall for villains before barreling towards the grand staircase, descending swiftly and anxiously.  When she reached the landing, she tore through the hallway dividing the manor, towards the back of the house, doing her best not to look around lest the lightening strike overhead and reveal hauntings lying in wait in the rooms along her path. When she reached the grand, wide, windowed French doors at the end of the hall, she stopped to catch her breath, stretching up onto her toes so she might reach up, depress the lever and creak one of the doors slowly open.  She stepped out onto the porch as she drew the door slowly closed behind her, with some difficulty.  She stepped cautiously to the end of the overhang, curling her toes around the top stone step. Then she waited for the light.

“Eighty four,” she whispered. “Eighty four.” Thunder clapped overhead, and lightning flashed, and Charlotte knew she must quickly execute her mission before the rain started to fall.  Fixating on her target in the distance in that brief offering of light, Charlotte whispered once more “eighty four,” and ran down the stairs, her soles picking up the cool moisture from the damp grass underfoot. 

“One, two, three,” she counted with each step, whispering under her breath as she ran, “four, five, six, seven.”

The slaves who worked in the fields lived in a tidy, organized array of cabins closer to the acreage upon which they worked, far from the house, but those assigned to the household resided in a smaller grouping of like dwellings closer to the home itself, steps from the kitchen house, “sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.”  Only Ephrath was a permanent resident of the servants’ quarters, mistress of the household, second in power only to Charlotte’s mother, and maintained in the household in the event of an emergency that required assistance. But she who Charlotte sought slept peacefully beneath a second, enormous, overhanging oak, in the little cabin she shared with her own mother.  Charlotte followed the gentle slope of the hill, the sound of the rushing river the only constant save the numbers under her breath, “twenty one, twenty two, twenty three.” Clutching her shawl around her, she fixed her gaze on the cabin ever more defined in the dark as her eyes adjusted. She prayed she would not slip on the grass, or go tumbling downwards, but she kept up her pace. “thirty six, thirty seven, thirty eight.”  There could be any number of other creatures on the ground beneath her feet, or around her, the ghosts simply a cofounding threat.  “forty three, forty four, forty five,” snakes, wolves, specters. Thunder rumbled again over head, and Charlotte felt the faintest drop of rain against her round cheek. The wind picked up, blowing her fine nightgown against her tiny frame, tossing her loose hair about her face, “fifty five, fifty six, fifty seven.”  Finally she reached the plateau, the sounds of the rushing river and the separate stream running behind the slave cabins ever louder now, their current turbulent and wild. “Sixty two, sixty three, sixty four.”  Charlotte felt another faint droplet on her shoulder, where her shawl had slipped, and she drew it in around her, her heart slowing as she ran headlong towards the whitewashed cabin with blue shutters, “sixty eight, sixty nine, seventy, seventy one.”  She stopped counting when her feet reached the damp clay of the dirt yard the cabins shared, and though the trees bordering the stream’s bank were as threatening as they could be, sharp angled and bare of leaves so early in the spring, she felt a sweet relief to be steps from Sukey’s door.  She was aware of the dirt faintly coating the bottoms of her feet. Before she knew it, she had mounted the first of the two stone steps, breathing a choked sigh. She looked above her, drawing her shawl close around her once more, and balanced carefully on one foot. She dipped first her right and then her left food into the tin bowl of water at the edge of the step, wiggling each foot inside carefully, then scraping them off on the edge of the step. Stepping up and down in place a few times to discard even more excess water, Charlotte reached up above her and lifted the thumb latch carefully, making every effort not to wake anyone inside. She gingerly pushed the door open, holding the latch in her hand, and was rewarded with a warm sensation in her belly as she peered at the bed opposite the dimly burning fire and saw Sukey sleeping peacefully on her side, facing the hearth.  As she closed the door behind her and turned about, she looking to the other corner to find Sadie similarly deep in slumber. Happy to have woken neither, Charlotte slinked along to the fireplace, casting her shawl off onto one of the chairs.  She reached into the crate containing the chopped firewood and soundlessly selected a log small enough for her to manage.  Laying it on the fire, she prodded it with a smaller piece of kindling, and was rewarded with fresh, licking flames.  Leaving her shawl, she bit her bottom lip, thinking on how best to approach her next task. She crept around Sukey’s bed, craning her neck to observe the older girl’s face, watching for any sign of wakening. Sukey’s bed lay flush against the wall at the head and along one side, and Charlotte stood now at the foot, placing first one hand, and then the other, one knee, and then the other, on the mattress. She crawled cautiously over the thin blankets, staying as close to the wall as she could. Beside her, Sukey’s warm body rose and fell in steady breaths.  When she had successfully reached the top of the bed, she moved with agonizing slowness, to turn herself about.  Thinking herself a fabulous success, she threaded her toes between the mattress and the blankets only to be stopped in her process by a voice as familiar to her as the sound of the flowing river. 

“What you think you’re doing bringin’ those muddy feet in my bed?”

Charlotte gasped, surprised both that Sukey would think her so absentminded as to have forgotten the rule, and by the fact that she had not been successful in accomplishing her mission. 

“But I washed them in the buck-” she was whispering, when she heard Sukey’s soft chuckle, and felt the shifting as Sukey turned over. She said nothing, only looked up at Charlotte and sighed, lifting the bedcovers.  “C’mon.”

 With a grin Charlotte joined her under the blankets and, with no invitation to do so, threaded one of her arms into the hollow between Sukey’s neck and her pillow, and the other over her neck, clasping both her arms around her, burying her little face against the older girl’s collarbones.  Sukey sighed and wrapped her own arms around the little girl, planting a kiss on the top of her head.  Charlotte fluttered her eyes closed and breathed in Sukey’s smell. The lavender soap she mixed herself, wood smoke, laundry.  And a smell all Sukey’s own that Charlotte would have, for lack of a better word, described as “Home.”  In the sparse light of the window over the bed, the panes cast grid like shadows over the sisters huddled together in the storm.  Both drifted effortlessly back to sleep.  Outside, a steady, heavy rain began to fall. 

 

In the dim light of dawn, Sukey walked up the hill in her work dress towards the main house, the heavy rain of the night before having abated, at least temporarily, in favor of the fine mist that danced about her head.  The sky above was dark as the occasional bruises on Charlotte’s pale white skin. On days such as these Sukey felt as though she might never fully awaken, and it was without enthusiasm that she reported for duty.  Down the hill below the river roared, flush with water, and the smell of smoke from the billowing fire in the kitchen house trailed behind her in the thrashing wind. Despite her rather disgruntled mood, and the slight chill in the raw air, she was warm.  Clutched against her chest was her beloved Charlotte, fast asleep with her little head resting on Sukey’s shoulder, deep, restful breaths exhaled in steady, even measure against Sukey’s neck.  She had not even stirred when Sukey had scooped her from the mattress after dressing herself.  She carried the child on her hip as she had for as long as the little girl had been able to hold up her own head, marveling at how she seemed even bigger than she had only days before.  How quickly Charlotte was growing.  Six years old, now. Thinking on it, though unconscious of her actions in relation, she moved one of her hands from beneath Charlotte’s bottom where they had held her up, and, shifting her hip to support more of her weight there, placed her right hand against Charlottes back, rubbing the child’s shoulder blades gently over her shawl. 

Creeping quietly up the main staircase, forgoing the expected use of the servants’ stairs, Sukey looked around much as her baby sister had when she had descended the stairs in search of her. The house was quiet. Sukey never ceased to be nervous whenever she retuned Charlotte to bed.  Lavinia was none the wiser, though she suspected father knew the little one often snuck out to seek her at night, observant and wakeful as he was. She feared the reparations that might accompany Lavinia’s discovery of Charlotte’s true hierarchy of comfort seeking.  The child certainly loved her mother.  But Sukey could not deny the feeling that she’d felt sine the child was born. That she had always, in some way, belonged to Charlotte, and the child, in turn, belonged to her. Padding across the landing in her slippers, she breezed through Charlotte’s already open door. Tucking her beneath the bedcovers, still askew, she carefully removed Charlotte’s shawl and tucked them back in around her, sighing.  Folding the shawl and returning it to the armchair, she placed two new logs on the hearth, and nestled in some kindling therewith.  Striking the flint from the fire bucket beside it, she lit the kindling and manipulated with a poker it until she felt the fire sufficiently healthy. Then she rose and dusted her hands off on her apron, circling around again to stand by Charlotte once more. She tipped her head to one side, and couldn’t resist leaning over her once more to smooth the child’s hair, a little, tender smile on Sukey’s lips.  Bustling downstairs suggested the arrival of the other house slaves and she sighed, straightening in her posture and heading for the door.  She lingered in the doorway for one last glance at the peacefully sleeping child.  Downstairs, her ears particularly sensitive, she heard the sound of her mother quietly calling her name.  She closed the door. 


	29. Chapter 29

Sukey draped Charlotte’s fox fur mantle over her shoulders atop her chocolate brown cape, slipping it beneath the hood, and fastened the delicate copper chain across her collarbones, above the velvet ribbons holding the cape closed.

“All these fine things, and you wearing those boots,” Sukey bemoaned. 

“A tragic occurrence indeed,” Charlotte droned sarcastically. “I am not riding in shoes, and I am not asking that Philip prepare the entire carriage for a five mile trip.” She looked at her sister with a tip of her head and an expression that suggest she be reasonable.

“It’s what he gets paid for,” Sukey retorted.

“Yes, and he’s been a great help with other tasks of late.  As he is still amenable to helping in such a way, I prefer that we avoid additional work that might be considered trivial.  It’s enough that he must remain while I am in consort with the gentlemen in question, but _that_ isn’t to be helped.”  Charlotte sighed as Sukey looked her over.

Sukey grumbled “Mmmhmm.  I don’t ‘spose you’d have him return here, and you by yourself with all those men!” 

Charlotte huffed.  “Of course not.  What would His Excellency say?  Worse, what would _you_ say?  My standing in the opinions of the members _society_ is of little concern to me, other than that I remain in good graces long enough to complete my duties, but I do hope to remain in highest of estimations with the Continental Army.”  Charlotte spoke freely now, Martha’s father upstairs resting, Martha herself seeking eggs in her chicken coop newly filled with chickens, and Peter with Philip in the barn. 

“Mmmhmm.  The Army.  I see. Anyone in particular?” Sukey raised her eyebrows and made a comical pout.  She fluffed the cream-colored brocaded silk of Charlotte’s robe a la Française, its single accent color a blue astoundingly similar to that of Ben’s regimental coat.

Charlotte scoffed, laughing “As if you’re unaware.”

Sukey groaned.  “All I’ve heard about since Setauket.”  She repositioned the little white gold anchor her sister wore so that it rested at Charlotte’s throat.  It hung around her neck by a thin ribbon of matching blue silk tied in a bow at the nape of her neck. Then Sukey checked Charlotte’s ears to be certain the generous pearls hanging just beneath her earlobes looked the way she wanted them to.

 Charlotte made an ugly face in return, bugging out her eyes and grimacing. She pointed her right foot out in front of her so she could look at her little round-toed riding boots.

“I think he’ll like them, besides, you’ve made them shine so nicely.”  Checking to be certain her Adams A signet ring was indeed on Charlotte’s left right hand finger, Sukey handed the girl her rabbit fur lined gloves of buff leather.

“Humph.  Ridin’ horse in a sack back.  Those boots might look right if you’d just put on a habit.”  She brushed at some imagined substance on Charlotte’s matching blue stomacher, embroidered in cream silk thread to mirror the same pattern printed on the rest of the gown.

Charlotte pulled on her gloves.

“I told you, there will likely be a fire indoors, and I am not keen on the idea of sweating my way through what is not intended to be an interrogation.” 

Sukey looked at Charlotte and huffed in acquiescence. Then she remembered.

“You got what you need?”  Sukey asked, gravely.  Charlotte tapped her right pannier, suggesting that the bit of fine paper was indeed in the pocket tied around her waist on that side.   “The other piece?”  She asked.  Charlotte nodded, grasping at the discreet sheath secreted inside her opposite pocket, Ben’s knife inside. She smiled and put both of her gloved hands on either side of Sukey’s cheeks, squeezing gently. Then she kissed her forehead. “Yes.  I shall be fine.” 

Charlotte looked around the rather chaotic looking kitchen and sighed.  They had accomplished a great deal the day before in the way of preparing the household, washing all the windows and scrubbing many of the floors, yet unopened crates of every kind, arriving from every manner of place all the time, occupied nearly every space, and they had a great deal remaining to do.  Yet with the help of Sukey, Philip, and when she was able, Charlotte, the task was coming along far more quickly than expected.

Martha seemed continually relieved. Peter’s accident as a child had left him quite physically disabled.  He was now, as he had been in so many situations, frustrated by his inability to help the way he wanted to.  Their father’s illness was a constant torment to the head of the family, once young and robust enough to have kept up with August himself, and his children suffered greatly to see him so.  He needed constant care, and Martha was unable to aide him in the way she wanted to, issues of privacy and propriety placing her in a difficult position.  Indeed, she often found herself so overcome with the notion of her father’s illness that the thought in itself immobilized her in intervening even when she might.  Peter himself struggled with his physical limitation, despite his eagerness to assist. Sukey, ever accustomed to assisting first Lavinia an then Charlotte with personal care, was more adept and less squeamish about such visceral things, and she helped a great deal where she might. Philip had thus far been of great assistance with household tasks of a general nature, but had also been of tremendous value in the transporting of Marcus from place to place throughout the house as required.  The task that might have quickly become impossible for Martha and Peter was now rendered far more manageable. Martha dreaded the idea of asking her New Jersey family for help.  Of a higher social standing than Martha, and condescending in their way, it was Enoch’s brother, a young barrister, that her cousins had sought to match her with in order to elevate her in class.   She had instead come to fancy his younger, gentler brother.  It did not bother her in the least that her fiancée’s line of work was not considered glamorous, or that it seemed a source of shame even to his own family, but the brief chortles of laughter from her cousins when his profession was mentioned had not gone unnoticed.  Enoch, Martha’s intended, was yet far away purchasing more sheep for this very farm, his chosen occupation sure to keep him from their future home many more weeks.  Marcus had not minded that the match his daughter had struck was with a sheep farmer. Enoch was quiet, and steady, and kind. Charlotte prayed Martha’s father would survive to see his daughter wed, but each time another fit of coughing besieged him and he crumpled in his chair, hacking bile into a rag, she braced herself until it ended, wracked by sympathy for the man, and plagued by the fear that he would not improve, not even slightly.  Charlotte had knelt beside his armchair the night before as he sat by the hearth.  He breathed in steam each night before bed from a small boiling kettle of water and herbs in attempt to relieve his cough, and Charlotte had remained with him, catching the wretched muck he spat into the clean, empty chamber pot.  Tears streamed down his cheeks, tears of exhaustion and shame, and he had muttered apologies to Charlotte between bouts of coughing. Charlotte had only firmly requested he not apologize, and bitten back tears of her own, soothing the man with words of encouragement as he filled the pot she held steadily beneath his mouth. It was inevitable, that he would die of this, the doctor said.  But Marcus had rallied before, and all now residing at the little farm hoped he might do so at least once more.  If _only_ just once more. 

 

“Still so much to be done,” Charlotte lamented. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Sukey shook her head.  “Come along,” she said, indicating with her arm the small breezeway off the kitchen leading to the back door. 

 

When they stepped outside, Philip was waiting, and Charlotte wasted no time taking Powhatan’s reins from him, with a pleasant “Good Morning, Philip,” in reply to his “Good Morning, Mi’Charlotte.”

Putting them over the gelding’s head, she held the reins as she stepped up onto an overturned wooden bucket Philip had supplied for her.  She mounted, situating her skirts, and with a smile and a wave to Suke she nodded to Philip, who had mounted his own horse, and they took off at a relaxed canter for headquarters. Inside the barn, Peter used his good arm to fork hay to the three remaining horses.  Sukey watched them ride away, and when they were out of sight, she drew her own cape in around her, going to seek out Martha in the direction of the chicken coop. 

 

At the same perimeter point to which she had reported before, Charlotte recognized the same young man who had permitted her access previously. She had stopped Powhatan at a respectful distance, Philip beside her and slightly behind, so as not to encroach upon the space of the two young men on guard.

“Good Morning!” Charlotte called to the soldiers, smiling.  It was still only half past eleven.  Charlotte had been uncertain how long their journey would take them, given how long they may need to wait for approval to enter the camp, and she detested the idea of arriving late to her meeting. 

Tobias recognized her at once.

“Welcome, Miss!” called.  “You are expected.  Please, come ahead.” 

Charlotte gave him a nod, and as they cleared the path she urged Powhatan into another canter. 

They breezed through the trees along the path, breaking out onto the flat meadow upon which the tents and buildings were situated. All the while, Charlotte, as discreetly as possible, scanned the terrain at either of her sides, searching for Ben. When all at once, it seemed, she reached the white building where she would soon be in conference with Mr. Sackett, Charlotte reached up and dropped the hood of her cape, scanning around once more.  She expected to see him at any moment, radiant in his buff and blue.  But peering about, she saw no sign of him. Stopped side by side near the staircase of the familiar building, Charlotte and Philip looked at one another for a moment, uncertain exactly how to proceed, when a young man happened to pass, and Charlotte called, politely for his attention.

“Begging your pardon, sir?” 

He paused in his stride to turn and face her, jerking his head back slightly when he looked up and saw her face, and Philip’s, also in his line of vision, not unfriendly, but stern.  The young soldier’s surprise was not unpleasant, but palpable.

 “Miss,” he said, with a bow. “I-How may I be of service?”  He flashed a brief, bashful smile. 

“If you could direct me to such a place where guests turn out their horses, I would be grateful,” she returned his smile with one of her own.  Warm, but reserved.

“Of course,” he said.  “If you follow this small path beside the main building here, you are soon to come upon a spare paddock which is designated specifically for that purpose.” Charlotte nodded gratefully. “Thank You.”

Without waiting for a reply, Charlotte urged Powhatan forward and Philip, on his bay, followed suit.

 

They gave the building a wide berth, following the aforementioned path, a narrow lane of sandy soil irregularly overlaid with snowmelt.  They passed a series of tents and campfires, bosks scattered intermittently about. Around them, the sparse covering of snow was patchy and uneven.  They located the paddock without trouble, plainly laid out as it was before them. At one narrow end, closest to the front entrance of the main white building, was a large, bony looking maple. At the other, where the paddock bordered the forest, the two noted, was the hinged gate, and they proceeded along the appropriate course until they reached a place at which it was appropriate for them to dismount.  When Philip dropped his stirrups and swung down from his saddle, Charlotte dropped her left foot out of her single stirrup, lifted her knee off of her leaping horn and slid down with a rush of fabric, landing on the balls of her feet on the thin layer of snow.  Standing at the edge of the paddock fence, she drew Powhatan’s reins over his head and had looped them through one arm.  She had run up her single stirrup and was reaching to lift one of billets on her saddle to begin unbuckling the girth, her mind occupied with the dalliance of wondering whether or not Ben would at least be present in the vicinity as she met with Mr. Sackett, when she heard an ungodly, unearthly scream. It was like no other sound she had ever heard another human produce in her life, and she was certain, in that moment, that it had been begotten of a woman.  She raised herself up on the balls of her feet, looking over Powhatan’s crest to seek Philip’s guidance, her alarm plain on her face.  She met his eyes over the top of his saddle, as he was running up his own right stirrup, and as he ducked around his bay’s head to unbuckle his own girth, he muttered his quiet confirmation “I heard it.”

Charlotte peered around.  No one else in the surrounding area of camp seemed to have reacted at all.  All in their vicinity were at some distance, but Charlotte could not imagine that they had not heard such an appalling wail.  The chill carried on the gust of wind that swept beneath her cape elicited a powerful shudder, and Charlotte was suffused with foreboding.  That sound.  It still rang in her ears.  She exhaled.

“I must…”

“Nn-Nnh,” Philip disputed quietly, with a rapid, nearly undetectable shake of his head.  He briefly looked around for himself. 

Charlotte sighed, frustrated, and came around Powhatan’s head to draw nearer to Philip in council.  She waited until he had come back around, his girth now undone and draped neatly over his saddle.  He slid it from his bay’s back. 

“Philip,” Charlotte began.  “It…was a woman.”  Her voice was quiet but emphatic.

She gave him space to walk as he approached the fence, placing his tack thereupon. 

“Must’ve been,” he said, curtly.

“Philip, she could be…” Charlotte paused intentionally, certain of what she implied, and waited.

“Could be,” he affirmed, as he opened the paddock gate. He lead the bay inside.

“I must do-“ She began.

He closed the gate.  “No,” he interrupted, quietly.  “You mustn’t.”  

She waited, but Philip, having lead the gelding further into the paddock, was removing his bridle, and was at too great a distance to speak comfortably.  Charlotte worried Powhatan’s reins in her hands.  When Philip came to drape his bridle over his saddle, Charlotte spoke once more, aware of her tone, aware of the volume of her voice, and the precarious nature of their interaction.  She could not endanger Philip, and if they appeared to be arguing, this young, white woman of status, and this male servant of color, the nature of such an exchange would not go unnoticed for long.  The soldiers would step in.  They would ask, as men had before, if she was all right.  If they could be of _assistance_. Their assistance she had never needed, not with this man who was her tutor in all manner of horsemanship, who, along with her father, had taught her to ride, who she had known all the days of her life.  As he always had, he was protecting her.  But Charlotte persisted.

“But it could very well be…” She gave a brief, meaningful raise of her eyebrows.  She had said nothing about Tabitha.  But on one of their brief carriage stops, she had seen Sukey speaking quietly to him as he stared, hard faced, at the person in uniform.  Likely her sister had made explained of the fact that this was not an unwelcome male presence, as Philip may have assumed.

He snorted, a sound rather similar to that of the horses by whom he was so often surrounded.  “Seedy, Doxy Trash,” he spat.

Charlotte widened her eyes, surprised he’d used such slang so openly. 

“In any case…” she continued, “…I am not going to allow such an offense to occur if I might somehow prevent it! It is an affront to his Excellency that….such an offense…might occur at his headquarters.”

Phillip sighed as he walked through the gate. Charlotte handed him her reins when he reached out his hand.  He looked around again, as they passed around one another by Powhatan’s head, Philip going to see to her saddle, Charlotte having long forgotten her intention to help untack.  Remembering, she caught the girth as Philip swung it down towards her, and unbuckled the remaining side. 

“And what are you gonna do?”  He asked.  “Charge in there, put yourself in harm’s way.  No.” He shook his head briefly at her as Charlotte draped the girth over the saddle.  He slid it off Powhatan’s back.

“I’m just going to look.  No one will see me.  If there is trouble….I’ll find Caleb.  He’s likely not to be inside.”  Charlotte’s gaze on Philip was steady as he returned from the fence where he’d placed the saddle.  He stood briefly, for a moment, by Powhatan’s head. 

“What am I gonna tell you, hm? In front of these men? Nothin.”  His voice was bitter.  Quiet, but resentful.  

Charlotte sighed as he led Powhatan towards the gate, and Charlotte opened it, hoping to ease the tension. As he passed by, Charlotte lifted her hand and wriggled her fingers. 

“You’ll hear me, Philip, if there’s trouble,” she said, alluding to the elaborate whistle signal code she and her brothers had always used on their vast plantation.  He said nothing.  She did not wish to wait any longer.  Philip returned with Powhatan’s bridle, placing it over Charlotte’s saddle.  He threw up his hands, in a brief, dismissive gesture. As he came through the gate, Charlotte patted her left pannier to suggest she had the knife.  Her gift, from Ben.

“I shall be fine, I promise,” she assured him. 

  
“This is absurd,” he stated.

Charlotte nodded as she began to back away, towards the tree line.

Philip looked around, watching her go. He raised his voice, only slightly.

“They see you, you run.”  It was not a suggestion.

Charlotte nodded curtly.  She had reached the edge of the wood.  Charlotte took a last, thorough look around her, and one final, steady look at Philip.  Then she ducked into the forest.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus far, By Land or By Sea and Nom de Guerre have remained consistent to one another. In this chapter, it comes to bear that By Land or By Sea differs on one crucial plot point that is included in Nom de Guerre but is not true to By Land or By Sea. For those reading both stories, the difference will soon be revealed. Suffice it to say that readers should rest assured that Ben is telling Charlotte the truth about his past history.

Charlotte hurried through the woods, careful to look about in all directions betwixt intermittent glances at the ground to be certain she would not trip. She reached behind her and lifted her hood, pulling it forward to cover her head, careful to leave it set far back enough that she would not impair her peripheral vision. She grasped handfuls of the heavy, silk lined garment in order to draw her long woolen cape in around her, convinced the darkness of its hue might help to camouflage her better in the forest. She walked in the direction from which she assumed the cry had come, picking her way over roots and mounds of earth, and other irregularities in the landscape.  This rash behavior, she knew, was terribly unfair to Philip, whose primary objective when dispatched at her side by William, at the outset of her journey to Setauket, was to ensure Charlotte’s safety as far as it was within his power to do so.  She had manipulated the situation, knowing that he was trapped, surrounded by white men, at His Excellency’s headquarters, and in no position to raise his voice to her in protest or demand.  He could do nothing to stop her but ask that she not proceed.  And now she tramped through the woods without, she felt, having displayed enough regard for the fact that she was his responsibility, or enough respect for the notion that the consequences of her actions had the ability to profoundly impact them both. Now, as she walked, she felt the weight of guilt creeping up upon her, as though her chest were being slowly filled with coarse, wet clay. She glanced back behind her. The forest had closed in, and while she could discern amongst the trees the place where she had entered the woods, approximately, it was now at the very edge of her line of vision. She thought she could hear voices, and she paused for a moment to determine her trajectory relative to the far off sounds.  Altering her course slightly, she followed the gradual downward slope of the land, navigating carefully in her little paddock boots so she could avoid stepping into larger pockets of snow.  The sound of what she was now certain was a woman’s voice echoed shrilly through the trees, though Charlotte could discern not a word, if any were spoken.  The second voice, barely and rarely audible, went unrecognized by Charlotte, given the lack of attention she devoted to it.

She thought only of cover as the voices grew louder, the woman’s in particular.  Charlotte slowed, aware of every sound she made as she moved, the rustling of fabric about her, the crunching of her boot heels on sparse patches of snow, and the occasional cracking of fallen braches beneath her feet.  As she approached the steep hillside that rose before her, leading to a plain above, she paused to listen again.  Certain she was proceeding in the correct direction, Charlotte took hold of her top robe and as many petticoats as she could, lifting them carefully as she made her way up the hill, keeping her head low.  She balanced carefully as she ascended, praying she would not slip on snow or ice as she climbed.  She thought, with hint of humor, that she had been right for perhaps the first time in the history of her garment choice arguments with Sukey, if only because her paddock boots suited this unique purpose, one necessary for an undertaking Sukey would have disagreed with anyway, rendering Charlotte’s argument altogether invalid. Filled then with fear, she was reminded her boots would be especially helpful if she needed to run. Should that become the case, she knew she could not return in this direction and hope to escape her pursuer. If forced to depart the woods in a hurry, she would have to find another way back to headquarters. It then occurred to her that she also risked being shot in her generous fox fur mantle, if she were mistaken for game. The ludicrous nature of her plan washed over her in waves of terrifying revelation, and yet she pressed on. Somewhere, back at headquarters, was Ben, unaware of her foolish errand, and she thought of him, perhaps in the very building to which she was soon to report, so long as disaster did not befall her in the meantime.  The more quickly she ascertained the circumstances, the sooner she could return to places she might find him.  And Mr. Sackett, that charming fellow, was waiting for her.  Balancing carefully, Charlotte peered up above the plateau and, noticing the dense population of trees, she felt confident enough to trudge up the last few feet and stand at the slightly higher elevation. The wind whipped her cape around her, and despite the uncharacteristic mildness of the winter weather, Charlotte felt a chill.  The voice, one alone was closer now, and as she started towards it once again she weaved her way between trunks of varying size. She had not walked far when she caught glimpses of familiar blue and ivory through the trees.  Ever more careful of her footfalls that she might make no sound, Charlotte crept towards the forms and noticed in the sparse patches of visibility between the trees that there were indeed two figures present. With a soft gasp, she snapped her head to the left, certain she had seen a dark shape pass through her periphery. She lowered her hood, frightened. When she looked again, sneaking around the rim of trees bordering the emerging clearing in which the figures in question were in consort, she heard the voice again.  A distressed, strangled cry.  It was that of a female, for certain, or that of a very young man in distress.  She peered around the wood again, making certain that there were no others around who might be complicit in what was transpiring.  She would not wish to be caught unaware by persons she did not anticipate being present, and thus potentially put to similar use if the circumstances were as nefarious as they appeared.  She scanned the wood, paying little attention to what transpired in the clearing. Then she heard the male voice, quiet and gentle, and squinted through the trees, frustrated. Filled with panic, she could not place it.  When finally she reached an opening in the trees that offered her a vantage point via which she could observe the clearing, she paused to look. 

Dread flooded her chest, constricting her breathing, besieging her, inescapable, plastered to her like a heavy, wet sail come undone, suctioned around a mast post in a storm.  Strangling her. Suffocating her. Ben.  There on the ground, with her.  Tabitha.  Beneath him, as Charlotte once thought she herself might be.  And still he did not see her.  Despite her preoccupation with their immodest position, the disorder of their garments, and the disarray of their personal appearances, mud spattered, hair askew, Charlotte could not help but notice that they were both quite completely dressed such as would render certain acts impossible. It puzzled her, but perhaps they had only just begun.  As if to confirm her suspicion, he seemed to be speaking to her, and Ben, kneeling, released her hands, which had been pinned to the ground.  It occurred to Charlotte then that this exchange may not have been entirely consensual.  But as Tabitha rose to sit up and was welcomed, not resisting, into his arms, Charlotte seethed, clenching her fists in her gloves as her pouty mouth dropped open in surprise. She meant to tear her eyes away. She meant to leave without being seen, but she was rooted, much like the trees all about her. He leaned forward, then, and placed a gentle kiss on Tabitha’s forehead.  Charlotte’s stomach pitched, and she prayed she would not be ill, though it would serve as a clear enough communication of her sentiments on the subject for any and all who witnessed.  Her hand flew to her stomacher.  Once, a four foot strand of her mother’s pearls had broken, and the baubles had slipped from their fine silken filament and clattered to the floor, bouncing in a clicking tattoo and rolling, scattering in all directions.  She recalled how most had gone coasting across the gleaming, polished hard wood, how some had stopped immediately upon reaching the imported rug, and how like chaos those brief moments had felt to her as a child. Desperate to move, Charlotte instead continued to stare at the two, and panicked when she saw Ben lift his head in her direction, a look of sickening realization and recognition on his face when their eyes met, and she wondered then why he looked as desperate as she felt.  His lips moved, but she heard nothing.  She felt only the winter wind whipping around her, stray curls blowing about her face. With a sigh, she made a conscious decision not to run but instead darted her eyes about the clearing, hoping to decide with efficiency and ease how best to make her escape. It was then that she saw another familiar face at the edge of the tree line, newly arrived himself it seemed. Caleb. Separated from her by the clearing itself and the convoluted path either must take around the trees in order to reach one other.  Seeing him there, with many of her own emotions plain on his face, confused and puzzled as he himself appeared by the events transpiring in the clearing, she thought then that she might cry. She turned about with as much grace and dignity as she could muster, fighting the tears she felt welling in her eyes. She hurried off in a different direction than that from which she had come, towards what she hoped was camp, her face flushed and burning.  As she navigated her way around rocks and roots, slopes and crests in the landscape, she heard the whaler’s first shout.  Her name. Loud, barking, insistent.

“Charlotte!”

Charlotte could not imagine that Caleb might expect her to stop and wait, so close by. She wanted him by her, she welcomed the idea that should Ben or Tabitha try to confront her now, Caleb would be there at her side.  She slowed, but continued in her resolve to return back to camp.

“Charlotte!!”

His bellow echoed through the trees.  She trudged along with little care for the snapping branches beneath her toes or the sucking of half frozen mud at her boot heels.  

The earth gradually sloped downwards, and from her higher vantage point, she could see familiar looking buildings.  Newly confident, and relieved to find she was headed in the right direction, she ignored Caleb’s third shout. 

“Charlotte!!!” and the accompanying “Ah, Jaysus!”

She could hear him crashing through the woods.  She knew he was fast on his feet.  He would reach her soon enough, and hopefully forgive her rudeness, under the circumstances.

“Murúch!” Caleb barked again “Stop!”

Charlotte stopped, and waited. Murúch, he had said. She had not heard the word since the evening he uttered it in Setauket, when Charlotte appeared out of the growing darkness to join he, Anna, and Abraham, her hair dripping with seawater. Unconcerned about whatever amount of noise he was producing in the process, Caleb barreled towards her, and Charlotte turned in his direction when the cacophony had grown so loud as to suggest he was close by.  She kept her eyes cast downward until his boots were in her line of vision. She raised her head. Caleb, winded and clearly frustrated, might have otherwise demanded to know why she had refused to wait for him, but his usual banter and whimsy had disappeared in favor of a frown and a furrowed brow, and a look of concern so earnest and genuine that Charlotte stared at him for a few, brief moments, unaware that she was holding her breath. When she finally gasped, it was with a strangled sob, and she watched his shoulders drop as he sighed, his gentle brown eyes filled, inexplicably, with shame on his friend’s behalf. She looked away, pursing her lips. When the tears brimmed in her eyes, she wiped them fiercely away and looked skyward, willing the levee to hold. Caleb grumbled, a sort of growl, and placed his left hand out behind her as if to encourage her forward. His right he placed out before her, as if to guide her in the correct direction.  They proceeded together in relative silence.  As they moved, more slowly than one man alone might, they heard the sounds of another person making their way through the wood towards them.

Ben’s voice echoed through the forest as he shouted “Caleb!” from well behind, his voice laden with distress.

Charlotte turned a concerned face to Caleb and spoke, her voice nearly a whimper as she shook her head, her pearl earrings bobbing about her face.

“I don’t want to see him.”

Caleb nodded.  “C’mon, then.”

They doubled the pace at which they had been walking.  Soon the trees were thinning and Charlotte’s wavering between crushed and indignant had begun.

Still the sounds of Ben approaching behind them continued. “Caleb!” he shouted again.  When they reached the tree line, Charlotte stopped and turned to speak with her escort.

“I must go and meet with Mr. Sackett now.”

She wiped at her eyes and cheeks with her gloves once more, surprised to find dark, irregular tear splotches on her first knuckles when she pulled her hands away.  She drew in a deep breath, reminding herself of her true purpose here, to help the cause.  She focused her growing anger across the Atlantic rather than back into the woods, as best she might. 

“We cannot be seen leaving the wood without a chaperone.”  She said, aware of how ridiculous this regulation would sound to the friend whose life she had always somehow envied, as it sounded ridiculous to her, despite her familiarity with the concept. “It’s not appropriate for me to have gone off by myself in a primarily male atmosphere to begin with, but to boldly emerge from a secluded place with a man familiar to me…or any man...” she looked at Caleb straight on to be certain he understood that she meant not to insinuate anything untoward about him personally, but referred instead to the frustrations of social convention.  In the distance, they heard Ben once again calling Caleb’s name.

He nodded his acceptance, with an irritated sigh. “Right.” 

She peeked through the trees “Perhaps if I emerge here and walk upon the main path leading back, you might emerge further down and call to me as though to initiate contact for the first time today…if you are indeed amenable to continuing this welcome escort...despite this rather exasperating inconvenience.”

Caleb shook his head almost impatiently to suggest she put whatever inconvenience she imagined out of her mind.

“I’m not leavin’ you.” He turned his attention briefly to the sounds behind them, growing closer now.  “ Go. I’ll catch up.”

Charlotte peeked out past the tree line and impelled herself forward as Caleb ducked behind her to find another place to emerge.  She proceeded, determined, past a scattering of tents, their occupants apparently entirely absent or sequestered within for the moment, and unable to mark her arrival in their midst.  Still she hurried. She could be in as much danger in a remote corner of camp as she might have been in the woods, despite the presence of the main building itself towards which she headed a mere few hundred yards away.  As she scurried towards the path a small voice in Charlotte’s mind which sounded too much like her sister’s asked  _“Who is it you want protection from, really?”_   Merging onto the path as inconspicuously as she could manage, she kept to her side as soldiers and officers examined her with apparent surprise and pleasure.  Those of age and breeding that compelled them to do so paused briefly to half bow to her as she passed.

“Miss Adams!” came Caleb’s familiar hail, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she turned around to find him hustling towards her.

“Good Morning, Lieutenant Brewster!” Charlotte waved with enthusiasm and smiled warmly and gratefully.  He caught up with her and they walked side by side.

“All right?”  He asked, keeping his voice low.  He scanned the area discreetly, then turned his attention back to her face.  Caleb was convinced that Charlotte, entirely capable of such an act, would not likely ever find herself actually compelled to reveal Tabitha’s identity…to anyone, regardless of how upset she appeared to be at that particular moment, and so this prospect held no concern for him.  He was assured of Charlotte’s ability to excel in her meeting, all the white remaining poised and gracious, but he knew how great a toll the brief ordeal had taken on her in such a short time.  His concern was for her heart, and the irreversible damage Ben may have done that may make any of his best friend’s clear aspirations where she was concerned impossible.

As they walked, she spoke quietly “I am to be interviewed.  I cannot lend my emotions to…other matters, now.  I have a rapport to develop, and I must command respect if I am to continue being of even minimal assistance.” Charlotte wondered aloud “…perhaps I’ll ask to report directly to the gentleman himself…”

The variance in wild conjectures related to Ben and Tabitha that Charlotte had entertained in the last ten minutes was impressive. She believed she must have considered every possible situation upon her short walk, and she found herself the fool in every one.  It suddenly occurred to her that Ben very well might have considered her easier to manage if she believed he fancied her.  She had been silent, but she exclaimed, to Caleb alone, in a hiss,

“Of all the tasteless, vulgar tactics! To bait me with romance to ensure my complicity!”

At this, despite the severity of the accusation, Caleb laughed.  “As if anyone could put that ruse over on Miss Trouble ‘erself!”  His tone turned serious.  “We don‘ave…all the information.”

“I gathered that!”  Charlotte scoffed.  “You needn’t make excuses for him, Caleb.  You’re too high in standing for that.”

Caleb grumbled his assent. He tried his best not to be pleased. Generally, he was unmoved by comparisons of standing and refinement made between himself and Benjamin. He was ever on the lower end in others’ estimations, and he was never perturbed and often amused by this fact, but he felt his chest swelling with a bit of pride as he absorbed the implications of her compliment. 

“Charlotte,” he continued, “they hate each other.  It’s not what you think.”

“Then why do you seem nearly as troubled as I?”  Charlotte asked. The time she had spent in Setauket with Caleb Brewster, Anna Strong, and her cousin Abraham had been brief, but Caleb was always so honestly and purely himself that his moods and expressions had been easy to learn.  Charlotte knew that Caleb was truly bothered by the fact that she had been wounded so, or he would not be walking beside her now.  But she had seen something else in his expression when she had caught his eye across the clearing, and it had not gone unnoticed.  When she looked over, uncertain whether or not Caleb would reply, she saw he was shaking his head, forlorn.  His voice was deep, and earnest.  “You’ve got to let ‘im tell ya.”

Charlotte’s voice was soft, and wavered considerably.  “Perhaps I no longer care to know.”

The pair had drawn nearer to the main building, facing one of its shorter sides as they approached. Charlotte gestured to Caleb to wait for a brief moment as she paused to locate Philip, standing beside the paddock, visible as she looked behind the structure.  She raised her hand high above her head in greeting to suggest to him that she was both returned and all right, and she saw his hand as it raised in returning recognition.  She breathed a deep sigh, and the two walked on. 

 

Racing through the woods in the winter chill, his body already besieged by unpleasant sensations of varying sorts, Ben felt the seeping of clammy sweat off of his chest as it dampened the lovingly embroidered scarf folded and nestled carefully against his body, pressed against his skin beneath his waistcoat and his shirt.  He knew the woods, but despite the speed and efficiency with which he attempted to move, he lost time, blundering about in his devastation. His empathy for Tabitha and his own grief had bowed like peasants in the street in deference to the parade of guilt, terror, and regret marching unrelenting through his being. The notion that he had, in one instant of misunderstanding, lost both the anchor, and the stars, and thus perhaps his only meaningful understanding of his position on the earth, was only quelled by the hope that he may yet find himself with the opportunity to intervene and repair some of the damage he may have caused.  He cursed himself, as he had several times in the past two days, for not revealing the truth about Tabitha when Charlotte had initiated the conversation two days before, aimed directly at preventing secrets that could later prove harmful to them both.  He had not known what to say that would ensure he would not be looked upon as a licentious profligate.  A woman like Charlotte would naturally be concerned about her chastity, and in considering how to approach the topic of his previous involvement, he had decided he must be very careful about making plain the fact that he had not duped Tabitha into participating in a liaison the circumstances of which had been misrepresented to her. He cursed himself, now, for not having avoided such confusion, and he tortured himself, wondering what she might have seen and what she might be thinking.  Were she his wife, he would have commanded her, in full voice, to stop.  He would have stood, tall and impressive in his boots, and summoned her to him. He would have lead her back to the wood, where he might freely, under a certain cover of decency, entwine his fingers possessively in her silken hair, and guide her jaw gently with the heels of his hands, forcing her to hold his gaze until he had made her understand. He thought once again that he had been the author of his own utter ruin.  And when he called Caleb’s name once more, he did his best to keep his voice from devolving into a strangled cry. 

 

When he burst out of the woods, Ben stopped for a moment to breathe, pacing briefly as he pushed back with irritation stray locks of hair that come loose and fallen into his eyes. With a sigh, he hurried towards the main building with as much decorum and restraint as he could muster in his tormented state.  Caleb and Charlotte were not difficult to find.  She hurried apprehensively along beside the broad shape of his best friend, who stalked authoritatively towards the building in stark contrast to her graceful movement, clearing a path for the two.

“Caleb!” Ben called once more, attempting this time to contrive in his voice a sound believably collected but plausibly pleasantly surprised to see them.  His friend ignored him entirely, but as he watched her, Charlotte turned briefly for a moment, unable to resist looking over her shoulder, and when their eyes met, Ben stopped in place, dropping his hands down by his sides. He could only liken the feeling surrounding his heart to what it might feel like to have hot lead poured upon that very organ rather than into a musket ball cast, slowly encasing the tissue at a drizzle with an excruciating, punitive burn, slowing its irregular, compromised beat, and he thought in that moment that its function might cease entirely.  She had looked at him in that moment as though he had passed her a cup and she had realized only moments before drinking that its contents were poisoned. With a quiver of his knees he watched her sidle closer to Caleb, as though drawing nearer might protect her from him, far off though he might be.  The look in her eyes had been wounded, but accusatory.  She thought him a monster.  He suppressed a groan, and impelled himself forward.

 

Charlotte and Caleb deviated from the path as he led them around towards the front of the building.  As the covered staircase came into view, the relief that Charlotte had imagined she would feel upon realizing that they had reached their destination was surprisingly not one of the many sentiments woven into the conflicted fabric of her emotional state.  She had seen how close behind them he was when she impulsively turned her head at the sound of Ben’s voice, and she worried that due to social expectations she may be forced to stand there with he and Caleb, suffering whatever ridiculous excuse he might offer, trapped, unable to tell him what she actually thought, surrounded as they were by others who might imagine it was simply a polite conversation.  Her additional concern was that if he did draw any nearer, she might cry.  In either case, whether she, in these moments, presented as the weepy, unhinged maid or the cold, haughty heiress, neither would work in her favor here.  She had thought to discuss with Mr. Sackett the possibility of contriving a publicly circulated rationale behind her presence in camp to begin with, should she continue to visit, that they might avoid rumors and whispers about what her purpose might be. Her behavior before such notions might be made general knowledge would certainly impact the ability of those in camp to believe what they were being told. 

There were few persons at camp who found themselves with reason to approach the building in question, and as they did so, Charlotte and Caleb were thus essentially alone in their immediate vicinity but for Ben’s pursuit at an awkward remove. 

“Caleb,” Ben called again, quietly, and as the sound of boots picking up their pace behind them was heard, Charlotte’s attention turned to the low, threatening muttering rumbling past Caleb’s lips.  A warning. “Don’t, Benny…”

As they crossed in front of the building, soon to pass beneath the windows, Caleb reached his arm out. His movement was fluid and discreet as he slipped his hand beneath Charlotte’s cape and pressed his palm gently against the small of her back.  His touch lingered, and when, not breaking their married stride, she turned her face to his, he leaned over and uttered “Go,” with a jerk of his head towards the stone staircase.  The wind had picked up, and as it whipped at Charlotte’s cape, pushed slightly aside by Caleb’s arm, Ben could see plainly where his friend’s hand lay, his heavy, calloused palm and dirt coated fingers besmirching, Ben imagined, the immaculate fabric. He heard not what Caleb said to her, but noted with a stab in his chest their proximity and intimacy, and surged forward in fury.  He was incensed that anyone might presume that sort of familiarity with Charlotte, who he had decided must be his alone.  While she proceeded, Caleb remained in place, and continued in his revolution to turn and face Ben. Ben might have barreled into him at his current pace had he not first locked eyes with his best friend, and in so doing, been halted by the expression on his face. Caleb stood rigid, dark eyed and menacing, daring Benjamin to best him or attempt to move past him. Wild, and primed for conflict. Where he otherwise might have been angry, Ben felt a horrible pang of despair in his belly, as the thought occurred to him that Caleb may truly believe that Charlotte was in need of protection from him. He looked past his brother in arms, to where she now stood, at the foot of the stairs, watching them with her face tipped discreetly in their direction.  She made no eye contact with him despite the intensity with which he willed her to, but seemed to become aware that he was looking in her direction, and he noticed the way the heavy fox fur on her shoulder brushed against her cheek as she turned her head away once more.  He exhaled with a desperate gasp, throwing his hands to his sides again in defeat, and as he submitted this temporary resignation of his pursuit, he accepted Caleb’s last dark glare as the whaler turned to hurry to Charlotte’s side. The look of gratitude on her face when she gave Caleb a small, discreet smile inflamed the dull, throbbing ache in Ben’s chest.  She mounted the steps only once he had returned to her side and encouraged her to do so with a soft “Go on, a stór.”

Despite the dreadful nature of the situation, Charlotte stifled a laugh as they stood side by side at the door. The two soldiers she recognized from days previous were on guard, but said nothing to her.  “Good Day, Gentlemen,” she said.  She expected no answer today, either, but saw no reason not to be pleasant herself, despite their likely speech constraints.

She inclined her head slightly and spoke to Caleb through closed teeth “Do we knock at the door?”  Caleb sighed.  “You’ve an appointment, right?” he asked, not pausing long enough to receive an answer.  He pushed past the guards and opened the door, stepping in with a flourish and an arm extended to invite Charlotte inside, and she followed him with slight hesitation.

“Mr. Sackett?” He called down the hallway.

“Yes!  Yes…” came a distracted, disembodied call from somewhere within, and Charlotte could not help but smile.  “Just a moment!”

Caleb patted Charlotte’s shoulder and turned to go, unable to remain, certain he could not feign pleasantries the way he was confident Charlotte would be able to.  She whirled around, surprised, as he went to close the door behind him. 

“You’re all right.”  Caleb assured her, with a grin it took him some effort to create. He closed the door and headed down the stairs.  He might have easily avoided Ben, but instead he strode directly towards him and as the young Dragoon began to speak, Ben found himself unable to utter even the first syllable of his friend’s name, as Caleb was already speaking to him, in a quiet, disgusted growl.

“Clean yourself up.”

The force with which Caleb’s shoulder collided with his nearly knocked Ben off his feet entirely, but he righted himself with only a stagger backwards.  Bewildered, he turned in place and watched for a fleeting moment as his dearest friend disappeared into the fabric of camp, never once breaking stide. Charlotte had reported for her meeting with Sackett despite her apparently significant distress, and despite what Ben assumed must be her understanding that she would be subjected to his presence so long as she was in camp.  Inspired and impressed, and determined to ensure his victory in his primary personal objective, that of permanently possessing Charlotte, Ben sprung into action, running for his tent where he might take his friend’s advice.

Mr. Sackett appeared from around a corner. “Ah!  Miss Adams!  How fine it is to see you again, my dear!”

“Mr. Sackett!  Good afternoon!  I am certain the pleasure is entirely mine.”  Charlotte smiled at him, a genuine smile, and curtseyed gracefully.

“Well," he scoffed sarcastically "hopefully you are not so frequently as erroneous as you have been with that assumption!  You brighten considerably my parchment plagued morning.  Please,” he gestured down the hallway, and Charlotte followed. “Surely you are not the barrel chested male whose voice I just now heard?” he asked, raising his eyebrows to indicate his jest despite the sincere nature of his question.

Charlotte laughed aloud, her hand flying to her mouth once she recalled the decorum with which she was supposed to present.

“No sir!  Lieutenant Brewster escorted me here, but I’m afraid he did not remain to greet you himself.  Would that I had such bizare vocal talents!  I might make use of them for our purposes!”

As he walked, Sackett looked over her shoulder at her and smiled a mischievous smile. 

When they reached the end of the hall, Sackett gestured to his right, and Charlotte followed him into what she presumed might be his study.  Papers were scattered across a larger desk in the center of the room, but he directed her towards a smaller desk placed against the wall.  One chair faced the wall itself.  A second chair sat in the corner beside a window, facing out across the hall towards a room of similar size which seemed appeared to serve a similar purpose.  Charlotte glanced at the clock, delighted to find that she was not late to their meeting, but slightly embarrassed to find she was rather early. 

“It appears I’ve arrived some time before the intended hour,” Charlotte said in a hushed voice, “my apologies, Mr. Sackett, I knew not whether I would have to wait to be granted access to camp.” She would not mention her detour or what she had witnessed in the wood.  If Ben were the fiend his apparent behavior suggested he might be, such a fact was for Mr. Sackett to discover on his own.  Charlotte forced the blue eyed soldier from her mind, and followed the small, delightful fellow into the bright, windowed rom, ever more the personification of a tortoise the more she watched his movements.  He was waving his hand dismissively at her, and drawing back the second chair.  “Nonsense,” he gave her a playful smile.  “I do, however have a bit of work to finish before we begin, if that would be acceptable.”

Charlotte sighed and smiled, relieved. “Of course.”  She realized he was waiting for her to be seated. “Oh, please sit!” She insisted warmly. “I have to…” she made a discreet gesture to suggest it was no small production, freeing herself of the burdens of her outerwear “tend to…all of this.” 

With a pursed-lipped smile and a vigorous nod, Sackett sat down.  She reached up and unhooked the ornamental copper chain on her capelet. She pulled at one side, drawing the heavy garment, of the rich pelts of three fully grown foxes, off of her shoulders.  She placed it carefully on the chair and unhooked her brown woolen cape.  She draped first one and then the other neatly over the back of her chair, and when she had finished removing her gloves, she tucked them carefully into the pocket of her cape.  She sat down beside him, her back to the window. 

“I am just now…” Sackett began as he shuffled some papers “…compiling for His Excellency some examples of communication utilizing techniques that we ourselves may attempt to implement in the future.”

“His Excellency,” Charlotte breathed, considering the pages before them on the desk.  The notion that he was present in some capacity, any capacity, somewhere around them, or nearby, was mystifying enough for Charlotte, but to be seated at a desk where papers that would pass into his possession now sat before her was surreal.  They had come from a place so similar, her dear Virginia, yet to Charlotte, George Washington was otherworldly, and she shuddered with excitement, thinking that her risk had proven a reward, in that she now occupied the seat in which she sat. If Ben, who she had evicted from her thoughts for the time being, indeed proved false, Charlotte would find herself crushed, she knew, but her elation over her potential to help the cause, her delight in her presence at His Excellency’s headquarters, and her excitement over the great opportunity she now enjoyed could be squelched or destroyed by no man. 

“Yes,” Mr. Sackett said, eyes still on his paper, quill inked and at the ready as he squinted and moved his spectacled face closer to the desk.  She dared not ask if the General knew about their meeting or what his thoughts might be on the matter, not wishing to distract Mr. Sackett, and wavering, in her desire to know the answer.  When she had not expected him to, Sackett spoke.  “He will be returning in the coming days.”

The two had paid little attention to the far off sound of the door opening once more, but as the purposeful, rhythmic approach of boots could be heard through the building, unmistakably drawing ever nearer, Charlotte inhaled sharply, and hopefully inaudibly. Sackett noticed, instantly, and when he cast a glance, briefly, towards the young woman at his side, he found her staring quite intently at the desk, yet clearly focused on nothing. He suppressed a smirk and continued referring to the parchment pages before him waiting for Captain Tallmadge to interrupt them, as he felt certain the young man would, if only briefly, before returning to the tasks with which Sackett had assigned him. Then, all at once, the young man appeared in the doorway.  Sackett looked up, to find Tallmadge’s eyes trained, quite expectedly, on their pretty guest. Ben had watched her walk away from him, and here she sat, where he could now look upon her and remind himself that she existed with such ease of perfection.

“Ah, Captain!” Sackett greeted him jovially, meaning to capture his attention.  He nearly chuckled to himself when Benjamin’s expression suggested he was surprised to find Sackett sitting there. 

“Mr. Sackett.  Yes, sir, I...” 

Charlotte turned her head to look out of a window with contrived interest when he appeared, as though the mysteries of the universe were at that very moment being revealed just past the glass panes.  Ben felt a wave of nausea. She would not even look in his direction.

“…I have returned to peruse the documents you have made available to me, Sir.” 

Sackett had imagined he might need to lean his entire body forward in his chair in order to hold the attention of either in such a situation as would offer the two the opportunity to look upon one another, but Miss Adams appeared to have theatrically taken little notice of the Captain’s arrival.  To Sackett, it was a marked change from what he had observed at their first meeting, and he wondered at the circumstances that might have produced such a palpable contrast.

“Excellent!” Mr. Sackett assured him. “Miss Adams and I….” Sackett glanced at her and noted that she turned her attention only to him, personally, as he spoke, and not to them both “…are soon to explore the circumstances under which she has made herself available to us, and her potential as agent, should…” Sackett turned his face to look up at Ben with a knowing glance “…certain opinions not thwart our attempts to establish a meaningful approach to espionage.” He referred thus, in his manner, to General Scott.

Sackett turned back to Charlotte and smiled, and that with which she returned it was genuine.  She tried her best not to look at Ben, but she had noticed, briefly and with a sour ache, how fine and altogether Continental he looked, having changed his uniform and re-braided his queue. 

Ben seized his opportunity “Miss Adams,” he said, bowing, his voice deep and confident despite the horrible constriction in his chest.

 He noticed the look of apparent reluctance and veiled dread on her face when she turned her attention to him, and once again he was overcome by the compulsion to close the distance between them and place his hands gently on her cheeks. Had they been alone, he would have knelt at her feet, and risen only when he had explained fully and been rewarded with her forgiveness.  But the circumstances would not permit such, and he settled instead on the plan he had devised to seize whatever future opportunities might permit him to speak to her alone. He had made a decision, staring into the small mirror in his tent as he examined his braid. He would not relent, he would not surrender.  He would have her, regardless of however long it might take him to deserve her.

Not wishing to hold his gaze directly, Charlotte studied with longing the bright blue wool of Ben’s regimental coat, and the buttons, counting nine, on his ivory waistcoat.  Finally, she raised his eyes to his, directly.

“Hello, Captain.”

He felt the words upon his tongue  _“Please, Charlotte, It was not as it appeared…”_ but when he spoke what left his mouth was no less authentic to his current sentiments. “You are…..breathtaking, as ever.”

When Charlotte uttered a quiet, shaky “Thank You, Captain” she turned her eyes away, back to Mr. Sackett’s tabletop, and Ben felt a tragic emptiness within him.  Looking straight ahead for a moment, at the wall, Nathaniel Sackett’s face was much like that of one straining to place more accurately a strange, disembodied sound heard in a house in the dead of night.  He compared once more what he had witnessed when first he had been introduced to the girl by the young Captain with the strained, uncomfortable feeling about the room now.   He resolved to set aside a few moments for a brief recess during which the two might speak, if they were so inclined.  A strained relationship betwixt handler and agent would not do in the interest of progress.  He hoped perhaps there was simply a slight misunderstanding or bit of uncertainty between the two of them that might be easily rectified.

With a last, yearning look at Charlotte, his attention lingering on the curve of her round cheeks, the elegance of her long neck, the rosy hint to her flawless porcelain complexion, and the swell of her generous bust, Ben forced himself to turn on his heels with a final nod at them both, returning to the round table at which he had sat, for various intervals over the past few days, with His Excellency, Mr. Sackett, and General Scott.

When he had settled himself in his chair, deliberately facing Charlotte, Ben noted, in spite of his distress, with a slightly bemused smile, the way Charlotte seemed entertained by Mr. Sackett’s mannerisms.  A smile was playing at the sides of her mouth, and Ben swore that even from across both rooms he could see her matching dimples appearing on either sides of her cheeks as Sackett hummed absentmindedly to himself, leafing through several pieces of parchment in the stack before him as he checked them against his list.  

“Well,” Sackett  said.  “I believe I’m quite finished.  Thank you for your patience, my dear.”  He turned in his chair, shifting its position on the floor slightly so that he could devote his full concentration to their conversation. 

“Of course, Sir.” Charlotte assured him.

Sackett smiled, bashfully. He paused for a moment in order to properly consider her.  When he spoke, it was an observation coupled with surprised recognition.  “Red of hair.  Your father was red of hair.”

“He was, yes.”  Charlotte inclined her head slightly.  “But how do you know that?”

“I will be asking the questions for now, Miss Adams!”  Sackett scolded good naturedly, wagging a finger at her as he drew from another stack of papers a list which he had written. 

Charlotte smiled and suppressed a giggle “All right.”

He had laid down his quill. He did not intent to transcribe her answers, as his memory was impeccable, but instead referred to the list that he might not forget to obtain information he wished to.

“Where were you born?” he asked.

“James City County, Virginia. At my father’s plantation.” Charlotte said.

“August Adams.” Sackett said, and he watched Charlotte’s face as she drew backward in surprise.  “Dauntless patriot, formerly of Boston,” he continued.  “You are related to Mr. Woodhull through your mother, then, I should imagine.”  
“Yes,” she replied.  “His paternal grandfather and my maternal grandmother were siblings. I call his father uncle, however. I have since I could remember.” Charlotte’s thoughts were racing. It should have occurred to her that a man hand selected by General Washington might have remarkable reconnaissance measures at his disposal, but it took her breath away that this man was sitting beneath the roof of His Excellency’s headquarters, and speaking her father’s name.

“And you are currently residing with in Setauket with an aunt…is that correct?”  Sackett inquired.  
“Catharine Woodhull, our mutual great aunt, third sibling of our respective grandparents,” she confirmed.

“And how did you come to live with her?” He asked.

Charlotte drew in a breath and cast her eyes across the hallway for the first time sine Ben had departed. She found him staring, quite intently, at her. 

Turing back to Mr. Sackett, she began. “I’m the youngest child of five born to my parents, and the only daughter.  My eldest brother William is head of household, the rest of the boys are soldiers in the 12th Virginia.  It was William’s belief, with our household overwhelmingly depleted in number, that I’d be safest with relatives elsewhere.  He, unlike the rest of us, is not forthright with the patriotic sentiments we all share.  He had kept our family and the property protected by remaining publicly apolitical, and by not assuming responsibility for many of the committees my father was supposed to lead or in which he was slated to participate, but after Dunmore…and the aftermath of his contract with the Continental Army for a tremendous portion of our crop yield…he became concerned.  He wanted me somewhere he was certain I would be safe.  I think he meant to hide me, truly.  I suggested an indefinite visit with Aunt Catharine. She has always been kind to me, and she lives by the ocean.”  Charlotte smiled bashfully at him.

Sackett smiled warmly at her in return. He waited a moment, and then glanced back at his parchment.

“Brothers!”  Mr. Sackett declared, rather enthusiastically, and Charlotte’s eyes brightened at the mention.  “Tell me about them.”

Charlotte grinned.  “William is, as I said, the eldest.  He attended William & Mary, and he apprenticed with our father in hopes that would one day act as head of household…at our farm…or one of his own.” 

Sackett interrupted momentarily “When you say farm…?”  he looked at Charlotte, peering over his spectacles, urging to her continue.

“Six thousand acres on the James River. Not all of which is planted,” she explained, suspecting he already knew.

Sacket added, “Your crops are hemp, and tobacco.” 

Charlotte nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

“Slaves?”  He asked.

“Over two hundred.”  Charlotte said, quietly.  It was not that she could not more accurately estimate the number, but that she did not wish to do so.

Sackett raised his eyebrows. “My apologies for that interruption continue!”

Charlotte shook her head at his apology to suggest it was nonsense that he apologize at all, then thought for a moment, remembering where she had been in her explanation. She then began anew. “William is quiet, and contemplative, and gentle.  His rationale is ever the result of much reflection, and his methods are deliberate. And he is kind, and just. He has courage, and always does what be believes he must, where necessary.  He is more likely to save his words than to share them.”

She paused for a moment, and Sackett smiled, nodding, in encouragement.  Charlotte smiled again, and continued.  Ben watched as discreetly as he might from across the hall, Charlotte’s bright, clear voice resounding throughout the rooms they occupied such that he had no difficulty in listening with rapt attention to her as she spoke.

“And Teddy, well…Theodore,” She corrected herself, flushing slightly.  She felt remarkably at ease with Mr. Sackett, but was yet slightly shy about using family nicknames, “…is next in order of age, and bright. He is dashing, and charismatic, and considered very handsome.”  Charlotte paused, wondering how to speak about her boisterous brother.

“He is also very humorous, and occasionally rather inappropriate,” at this Charlotte laughed aloud, quite unwittingly, remembering examples of such behavior, and Ben felt a strange pleasant tugging in his belly despite the severity of their situation,

“Of course, he rarely intends to cause offense, he simply has difficulty censoring himself at times.” She grinned a conspiratorial grin at Sackett, all thoughts of Ben chased from her mind now that she was at liberty, after many months, to speak warmly and openly about her home and her family.

“He is a Captain now, in the 12th Virginia, and it is my ardent belief that his charm has served him well in his quest for advancement.  He and Nathaniel both attended New College in Boston, like father.”  She paused for a brief moment to be certain Mr. Sackett was ready to hear more.  Finding him attentive, she continued,

“Nathaniel is next in age, and I imagine he is very much like you, Sir.”  Mr. Sackett raised his eyebrows and pouted slightly in pleasant surprise.

“He is inquisitive, and sharp of intellect. He is studious, and analytical, and he enjoys discovering how objects are constructed or designed, or why they function the way that they do, and in his spare time he enjoys contriving contraptions and building them himself.  He loves the natural sciences, and like William, he is more reserved. He is exceptionally observant of human behavior and mannerisms, as well” 

Sackett nodded, approvingly.

“Edward is youngest of the boys,” Charlotte hesitated, and decided she would be as honest with Mr. Sackett as she pleased, and it pleased her to speak openly with him. “…and Edward is a rogue…and Edward is wild…. and Edward is wonderful.”  She smiled, wistfully.  “He says what he likes when he likes, and is not afraid of taking risks if he believes the rewards will be great, or if he is certain he is doing what he believes he must.”

Sackett was nodding, his face tight. He rather liked all of these young fellows, he had decided.  All of the Adams children, in fact.  Charlotte, in particular.

“…he is often perceived to be reckless and rebellious, and I agree with those assessments to a degree, but I do not believe that they are a detriment to his character.  I believe they are an asset, to our cause, especially.” She waited a moment. “Those are my brothers, sir.”

“Very good!”  He declared.  “And you, Miss Adams?”  Mr. Sackett asked.

“Me, Sir?” She asked.

“It may be indelicate, but I must ask about your…attachments.” 

He cast a sideways glance over at Ben, who, for the second time sine he was seated, found himself out of his chair, pacing back and forth as he read, desperate to listen but not to stare despite his overwhelming desire to do so, hoping his continued movements might render the task easier. Sackett grimaced in his direction.

“As you may know, given your apparent…” Charlotte paused to smile at him, to indicate to Sackett that she was not disturbed or dismayed by the fact of his knowing, nor by the mystery surrounding that awareness “…foreknowledge.  My parents sailed for Bermuda in 1771.  They never returned.  We never received word of any kind, not even that they had arrived on the island, and so we, for many years, were uncertain what to think, or what to expect.”

Charlotte paused for a moment, wondering, briefly how much of his foreknowledge had come from Ben.

“I was sorry to hear.” Sackett said.

“Thank you, Sir.”  She said, sincerely.  “As such, certain elements of our daily lives were much, and in fact permanently, altered….” 

Ben had stopped moving and was standing upright, pretending to read from a book by the light of a window.

“It was my mother’s intention to stage my coming out after her return.  Given the circumstances, and our prolonged, uncertain mourning as a result, it was decided that I would not make my entrée into society, for matrimonial purposes, for some time.  We simply have never revisited that discussion, and I never cared to broach the subject or ask why. It would now fall to William, as the only man at home, to help me in that endeavor and until….” Charlotte stopped herself, praying neither Ben nor Sackett noticed her glance over at the handsome young Dragoon.  She considered her words and then spoke.  “I’m grateful he never pressured me to wed.” 

“I see!”  Sackett said.  “And…” he considered his parchment “How were you educated?”

“By our tutors,” Charlotte replied, happy to have changed the subject.  “A series of them lived with us.”

“Very good.  Languages, other than English?”  Sackett asked.

“French.  When age permitted we were educated as a group, and learned together most of the day, but in the afternoons we separated.  My brothers were tutored in the classical languages, whilst I was tutored in piano and later voice as well.  I derive such great pleasure from music, but I would be lying if I said that I felt no jealousy towards them.  For that, and…” She was surprised at herself, revealing so much to Mr. Sackett without having been prompted, but she liked the little man a great deal.  She thought how her father would have loved to occupy her seat, to engage in revelry and discourse with this remarkable, peculiar gentleman.

“Yeees?”  Sackett asked, the ‘E’ sound drawn out, inquisitive.

“…attending college.” She wished not to shock him. “It’s not that I would have wished to leave home, or become part of that atmosphere, simply that they returned with their body of knowledge so enriched…” she trailed off and shrugged.

“Understood.” Sackett agreed. “Captain Tallmadge!” Sackett called, across the hallway. The summons was quite unexpected for both of his young companions.

“Have you that book there, on the history of ciphers?” Sackett asked.

“Yes, sir, I have it right here,” Ben answered.

“I should like Miss Adams to have a look at it. When you might spare it.”

Ben’s heart leapt as an idea struck him. “Yes, sir, I’m consulting it at the moment, but I shall bring it to you presently.”

“Very well,” Sackett droned.

Discreetly, Ben drew towards him the inkpot and one of the spare quills set out on the table, tearing a bit of parchment as soundlessly as he might from a stack of fresh pages. He began, quickly, to write.

Sackett ran his ink-blackened finger down the parchment page.

“Any other persons with whom you enjoy a close relationship?”

Charlotte nodded.  “Sukey is my personal maidservant.  She was gifted to me by my mother in 1767, but until that time had belonged to my father’s estate since her birth in 1742.”

“A slave?”  Sackett asked.  
“Yes, sir.” She answered.

“Trustworthy?” he inquired.

“Implicitly so,” Charlotte assured him.

Sackett looked directly at Charlotte.

“Walnuts.”  Sackett said, out of context. 

Charlotte simply stared at him, pleasant-faced, amused and delighted by his peculiarities, waiting for him to continue.

“I desire walnuts.  I am going to retrieve them now, and I should like to know whether or not you’d like me to bring enough for us both.”

Charlotte grinned  “No thank you, sir.  But thank you.”

He nodded and rose from the table, and she watched him fetch a nutcracker and wooden bowl from a small dresser as he went out.  Ben noted his departure and furiously concluded his final sentence, blowing on the ink that it might dry more quickly.  He dared not blot it, lest the message somehow be transferred.  Waving the bit of parchment about, he found the book in question and carefully folded the note in half, tucking it between two pages so that the edges protruded in an obvious manner.  Sackett, scooping walnuts from a barrel in the pantry, hummed to himself as he did so. Surprised to find himself anxious beyond measure at the thought of doing so, Ben crossed the hall and extended the book in question out to Charlotte, at such an angle as to indicate to her the message he had left within.  His eyes bespoke severity and urgency.  Where he might otherwise have lingered to gaze at her, he chose instead to hurry in and out that she might find herself with enough time to read the letter, and hopefully hide or dispose of it before Sackett’s return.

Charlotte’s heart had hammered in her chest, and she had prayed Ben would not speak, as she could not begin to imagine what she might say.  Instead, she had taken the book from him as he held it out to her, watching his bright blue eyes as they drew attention to the note tucked therein.  She furrowed her brow, and noted he had gone before she could look up at him again.  She listened for Mr. Sackett, pausing a moment to determine his location in the building, a step that Ben watched her take, noting the action with approval. She carefully plucked the tiny note from its place.  

Pinching it carefully between her thumb and first finger on each narrow side she began to read…

_Tabitha McKenna and I were engaged for eight months.  We realized we were entirely unsuited and ceased all involvement long before I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. What you witnessed was my attempt to intervene with her on her behalf.  She received troubling news from home and had become impassioned with grief. She had become aggressive, and I feared she may harm herself._

 Across the hallway, in the opposite room, Ben waited, pacing, desperate to repair the damage he feared he had caused, attempting still not to openly stare in Charlotte's direction.  Watching Charlotte's troubled face intermittently, he saw it turn from one characterized by puzzlement to one marred by pain and, dare he hope, compassion. He turned in that moment, when he was certain she must have finished reading his few, short sentences.  She looked up and caught his eyes deliberately, pouty lips slightly parted, empathy plainly evident on her face.

 “Oh,” she said softly, and he heard her exclamation clearly from across the hall.

Ben tipped his head to the side, a deep breath and accompanying sigh straining his waistcoat against his chest momentarily, as he searched her face, his eyes pleading.  The sounds of humming and shoe heels began to draw nearer now, and Charlotte, thinking quickly, stared at the small note for a brief moment, and rose, whirling around in her gown as she hurried to the fireplace, sticking the parchment deliberately into the licking flame, pulling her fingers back just in time as the words disappeared in rapidly curling blackness. She hurried back to her seat and looked over at Ben, who had returned to his own seat at the sound of Sackett’s return and had peering around the doorframe intently in those moments when she was out of sight.  Charlotte sat once more, herself, and looked over at Ben, head on.  With a single, discreet nod, she indicated his secret kept, the note destroyed. For the first time that day, Benjamin Tallmadge smiled, as pleased and proud of his agent as he ever had been.

“What say you to a brief recess?” Sackett asked Charlotte as he rounded the corner.  She paused and looked to him, her attention having been on Benjamin, attempting to assure herself she was responding appropriately to what Mr. Sackett had said before she spoke, but he continued.  “….perhaps just until the next hour.  I have received a bit of correspondence on my brief adventure that I wish to address, should His Excellency require briefing on the subject.” Sackett looked back and forth across the hall, bowl in hand, brimming with walnuts.

Charlotte nodded.  “Yes, sir.  That would be just fine.  I might see to my mount.” Charlotte paused, then admitted. “He’s fussy.” 

Sackett chuckled. “Very well.  Yes.”   
Charlotte wasted no time, standing to put on her cape and capelet as Sackett seated himself with several small pieces of mail and his bowl of walnuts. Ben, waiting to see if his opportunity might present in this moment, tapped his right foot against the floor unconsciously as he turned his attention back to his book, clenching his fists as he waited to see if Sackett might address him.

“Until the hour,” Charlotte said with a smile, maneuvering around Sackett with ease as he spread out the first letter.

Sackett nodded, picking up his nutcracker.

As she breezed towards the front door, Charlotte paused to look at Ben, her eyes empathetic, and gentle. It was the strongest glimmer of hope in which Ben had basked all morning, and he smiled sheepishly at her, noting the twitches at either side of her mouth as she continued on her way.

  
When she stepped outside, Charlotte was instantly refreshed by the chill of the winter breeze, and as she descended the stone steps and headed in the direction of Powhtan’s borrowed paddock, she recognized a familiar face. Caleb, seated on a barrel beside the bony maple, a few yards from the paddock fence.  She hurried down the steps, going to join him. In one hand, he had a bit of suspicious looking meat, and in his lap a bit of cloth with some cheese wrapped inside.

“That’s a mean horse.” He declared, when she was in earshot, jerking his head in Powhatan’s direction.  Charlotte laughed aloud and looked to her horse.  The gleaming copper gelding stood in the center of the paddock, looking bored and aloof.  Had she been in a better mood, she might have inquired as to the particulars of the interaction which caused him to draw that conclusion, but she chose instead to tease the whaler, mimicking his accent and manner of speech.

“Aye, just like his mother, right?”

Caleb roared with laugher. When he had sufficiently recovered, Charlotte stood before him, and he rose to allow her to sit on the barrel.  
Charlotte sat beside Caleb who stood leaning against the tree trunk. Neither said a thing for a moment, until, quietly, Charlotte asked 

“Have you been waiting here, looking out for me?”

Caleb snorted, surprised by the notion that she need pose the question at all.  “As ever!” 

“Well,” Charlotte began. She watched with discomfort and alarm as Caleb placed the hunk of meat in some indistinguishable pocket in his pants, likely, she thought, to be forgotten for days and then rediscovered with renewed enthusiasm for the prospect of its ingestion. He set about eating his cheese, picking open the cloth.   He held it out to her in offering with a sly smile, knowing she would refuse. It was as she was politely shaking her head that she noted his wound. 

“Caleb!”  She scolded.  “What is that?” She pointed and he shifted his belongings so he could hold out his left hand, displaying the deep wound in the crook of his thumb and first finger. 

“That’s eh…” he paused. It’s just an accident.” His tone was dismissive, but laden with more than simple disdain for his injury.

Charlotte leaned forward and examined it, saying

“There seem to be a lot of accidents around here…you need to clean this with water.  Hot water and soap suds.  And white vinegar. And bandage it.”

“Ah, it’s fi-” he began to protest, but Charlotte looked up at him, just once, and he desisted.  She placed out her hands.  With unintelligible grumbling, Caleb assented and gave her his hand.

After a torturous five minutes, Sackett, without turning to look at Ben, began to suggest, “You might as well take a recess yourself, Capt-“ and he had nearly finished his sentence when Ben sprang up from his chair and made his way around the table, hurrying towards the door at a near run, uttering a brief “Thank You,” Sir as he left.

Shaking his head, and trembling with soundless laughter, Sackett cracked another walnut.  Ben hurriedly descended the steps and turned about in all directions, casting his gaze all around him in order to locate Charlotte. He found her, just as she was reaching out to take Caleb’s hand, and as neither seemed to notice him, he strode around to the long side of the paddock, pausing halfway down.  From there, he observed.  He noted Philip, seated at the opposite side of the paddock, atop the fence, whittling. 

Charlotte examined the wound, turning his hand about so she could look more closely. 

“This  _smells_ , Caleb,” she told him, emphasizing the word.

He grinned mischievously. “Yer not the first woman to say that to me!”

She laughed aloud, loud enough that Ben could hear the delightful sound ringing across camp.  “Disgusting,” Charlotte declared.  Then she continued, quietly, somberly.  “It seems you were right.” She said.  “Things were not…as they appeared.”

Caleb simply nodded. “I know that.  He’s watching us now, ya know.” 

Charlotte raised her head as if to turn it and Caleb made a disapproving noise.  She looked instead back at the wound. 

“There are pieces of bark…and what appears to be…fur…in this.  Whether that fur your own is not a mystery I wish to solve.”  Caleb laughed again.

“It’s mostly healed, but I recommend,” she empathized this word, “you following my suggestion.” She peered closer at the gash, leaning down and moving his hand to examine it in better light. In the winter wind, stray locks of hair blew across her line of vision, and she shook her head, brushing distractedly at her face as she squinted.

“Pretty thing…” Caleb murmured. He reached forward with his right hand and a pinched a lock of her hair gently between his first and middle fingers. Slowly, he drew it back behind her, brushing the pad of his thumb over her ear as he did so, and she trembled, slightly, wondering what Ben might think, watching.

“He’s my best friend…but yer a find, Murúch. Remember that.”

Charlotte nodded and looked up at him, speaking in a hushed voice.

“I will.  Thank you, Caleb.  I think…I think I should speak to him now.”  She let go of his hand, reluctantly, and he stepped backwards, nodding at her. With a look that suggested a vote of confidence in her, he turned and headed off. 

Charlotte rose from the barrel and turned about, heading for the paddock fence. 

Ben had already begun to make his way towards her, and she was happy to see that Powhatan was doing the same.

Her horse, naturally, was faster, and had extended his head over top of the paddock fence to blow on her face in greeting when Ben approached. 

“Charlotte.”  He said, an exhale, a plea.

She turned to him, keeping one hand on Powhatan’s jaw, the other stroking the impeccable white stripe on his face.

“Benjamin Tallmadge,” she said. She hated him then, for how handsome he was.  For how terribly nervous he made her.  For how impossible nearly everything without him felt, how meaningless.

“I-“ he began, stepping forward, standing less than two feet from her. 

“What I saw was awful.” She snapped, interrupting. “And if it was not of the platonic nature you claim, I do not ever wish to speak to or be present with you in private company.”

Ben sighed, a horrible, wretched, terrifying feeling flooding his chest, black and foreboding, spreading like unfurling veins, like the smoky tendrils appearing, floating suspended in a bowl of clear water as a long-inked quill is dipped to be rinsed. He drew nearer to her again, standing with his hip against the fence, looking about to be certain his action did not appear untoward. 

“You were engaged.” She continued. “I spoke to you the day before last of secrets, and you might have told me then, when I revealed mine to you.”

Ben nodded his understanding. “Yes.  I was afraid you might think I had deceived her for…nefarious purposes, or that you might think me some kind of…libertine.”  
Charlotte scoffed, saying “You should imagine what I might think you now!” and Ben was surprised by the sensation in his breeches her haughty attitude inspired.  Had she not been justified in her attitude, and were they on more familiar, intimate terms, he might have liked to swat her on the behind for that.

“I know,” he acknowledged. “And I would have spared you every detail of that era of my life had I the chance, Charlotte, I swear to you. But I have not…entertained so much as the idea, or even the thought, of myself with anyone other than you since the night we met in October.  And it is…all that I think of…when my thoughts are not occupied with matters relating to the war, as they most often are.”  He was leaning towards her now, thrilled to find that she was inching closer to him.

 “And how might I be the wiser, if you were to lie to me?” She asked, raising her eyebrows, asking him to consider her position.   
“I’m not lying to you, Charlotte!”  He insisted, raising his voice, and she drew in a breath, slightly ashamed that she found his commanding attitude so thrilling, in such circumstances as these. 

Ben continued, moving closer still, softening his manner.  “I would never lie to you.”

“You certainly seem to be fond of omission.” There was no venom on Charlotte’s tongue.  It was not an accusation, merely her observation. 

“Charlotte, please,” Ben pleaded. He sighed and propped up his right elbow on the fence post beside him.  “How could I think to darken your arrival with such unpleasant things, when I had dreamt for months of seeing you again, and knew not when it might be?”

Charlotte would not allow herself to be distracted.  “The note. You are certain there is nothing else to tell?”  She had turned now to face him directly, her left side against the fence, Powhatan’s muzzle by her shoulder.  The horse stood irritated and ignored.

“You have my word.”  Ben insisted.  And honest man, she thought.  A good man. The man I thought he was.

But still she must be sure. “And you promise me it is not possible that you might one day-”

“No, Charlotte!”  He snapped once again, his face hard and severe. Then he softened. “It’s not possible.”

She allowed herself to smile up at him. “I’m not entirely certain why, but I believe you.”  She drew ever closer, less than a foot from him, and Ben felt a familiar flooding of warmth like brilliant sunlight in his chest.  One he had felt when she arrived, when she had walked beside him and told him her secrets. She spoke softly, and looked directly at him, up into his eyes.  “You must tell me now, what you wish from me.  I cannot endure any more uncertainty, Ben.  I fear I feel more for you than I should.  I intend to continue my mission here as far as I am able, whatever the outcome between you and I might be, but I wish to do so without ambiguity between us.” 

Ben’s voice was certain and earnest as he spoke, leaning over Charlotte, the warmth of his breath nearly palpable on her lips.  “I wish to court you, I wish to have you, I wish to…” he stopped.  “I wish for you to be…my….I hope that we might find ourselves…united.  One.”

Charlotte nodded and huffed out a sigh, tears of relief and happiness smarting in her eyes.  She looked away for a moment, off into the distance, as if making a decision, when truly she was simply composing herself. She turned to him once again, and with her fingertips, before he was aware of her intentions, ghosted them along the inside of his palm as it rested by the fence post, drawing her hand away before he could react.  The thrill throughout his body was tremendous, and had their discussion not been of so serious a nature, he might have found himself fighting the urge to carry her off into the woods that she might have a frame of reference for not ever confusing his actions in the forest again.

“Then we shall be, in time.” She whispered. He fought then another sea of urges, waves of them, now cresting within him.  “But I am not temporary, Ben.” She added.  “Nor am I mercurial.”

Ben nodded. “I have never imagined you to be either.”

“I imagine,” Charlotte began, “That an aspect of your efforts here relates to the building of trust. I hope you and I might do the same.”

“You shall have all my life to build your trust in me, Charlotte.” He promised, his eyes darting over her face, enraptured.  He willed her to understand.  “Though I pray it will not take you that long.”

“And you shall have mine to do the same.” She swore. 

He exhaled, overcome with elation.  She tipped her head upward to gaze at him adoringly, and he leaned down towards her, uncertain what altogether he thought he was doing. Then a horrible crash could be heard from several yards away as accompanying shouts of chastisement and blame signaled some type of military mishap, and, moment lost, Charlotte grinned, flushing a bit, turning her face to the side as the blush rose high in her cheeks, spreading down past her neck towards her chest, and he thought perhaps he might not survive their courtship if this what was it held in store.

“When may I call on you?” He asked.

“Whenever you like,” she insisted.

He nodded.  “My schedule is…rather demanding at the moment…General Washington…”

Charlotte shook her head. “You mustn’t worry, Ben.” Her voice was nearly a whisper, and Ben felt a kind of peace settle within him then that he thought just might be the very reason he would survive the war.  He was attempting to think of something to say, when she spoke, reaching out her hand again to gently place it on his forearm. 

“It seems you’ve suffered rather more than I today.” She admitted.  “Shall we return to Mr. Sackett?”

“Yes,” he agreed, gratefully. He yearned for her presence, but detested their feigned privacy in this particular location.

Charlotte pushed off from the fence, earning an indignant snort from Powhatan.  Ben followed, amused that it was she leading the way at headquarters.

“Come,” she said, waiting for him to catch up and walk beside her.  “I have things I wish to tell you both that I could not risk committing to paper. About New York.”

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

Charlotte reached down into her closed bottomed right pannier, pinching John Andre’s calling card between her two fingers that she might make certain it was still there.  When Ben reached her side, she stepped into stride with him, slipping her hand discreetly out from the slit in her petticoats.  Turning to look at him for a moment, she was startled to notice that his left cheek was looking swollen and pink, and surprised that she had not noticed it before.

“Does that smart?”  She asked.

Ben chuckled. “No.”  He shook his head.

She might have replied had they not needed to draw nearer the building, and as such, closer to the soldiers who Charlotte now assumed must be a few of those known as Washington’s Life Guard.  She paused to consider what, if anything, Mr. Sackett might already know of her sister’s particular involvement in this undertaking, or, for that matter, what he might know of the characteristics surrounding her relationship with her father’s eldest child.  Any opportunity to seek Ben’s instruction as to how to proceed where the matter was concerned had passed for the moment, and she only hoped they might soon find themselves with occasion to speak privately, that she might clarify the specifics of her role, and whose confidence she should share in the future, and to what degree. She had decided that she liked Mr. Sackett very much, but Ben’s own status and position seemed uncertain, along with that of the budding spy ring in which she and her cousin were already involved, and she wished only to compliment and never compromise any potential for advancement that might be afforded Ben in the course of the delicate deliberation in which he now found himself involved. 

The wind shifted when they found themselves at the foot of the steps leading to the building. Closing her eyes for a moment, Charlotte inhaled, slow and deep, filling her lungs, drawing into her nostrils as much of the sweet scent of wood smoke on the air as she might. Ben paused for just a moment, watching her as she tilted her face towards the sky.  When she fluttered her eyes open again, she turned and smiled at him, pursing her lips unconsciously almost immediately thereafter, as though to quell her enthusiasm in a place where she felt she need show less obvious affinity for the Captain and more reverence for the task at hand. But Benjamin, in fact, was smiling, too.

Charlotte huffed out a breath that was a bit of a laugh and a bit of a sigh.

“It soothes me,” she said.  “It reminds me of her.”

Ben thought that ordinarily a young woman might be referring to her mother when speaking about another woman with such apparent affection, but he had the distinct impression that she was referring to her sister.  He inclined his head toward her, tipping his face downward.

“Shall we?” he invited gently, gesturing in the direction of the steps, a humble invitation. 

Charlotte nodded, following by his side up the stairs, resisting the urge to laugh as a wave of embarrassment over her choice of footwear washed over her. To her relief, Ben did not appear to have noticed.  She lingered, standing back when they reached the landing in anticipation of his next action, which was to sweep efficiently yet deferentially in front of her and breeze through the door, stepping through to hold it open for as she swept in behind him, a sudden wave of exhilaration rippling through her chest as she brushed past him, at a proximity close enough to remain in alignment with expectations of propriety, but which nevertheless served, she hoped, to suggest her desire to be in his presence at greater intimacy.  As he moved to close the door, Charlotte looked to the floor, watching his gleaming black boots as they pivoted on the hard wood.  When he found himself able to join her, Charlotte averted her gaze, afraid she’d be found strange, knowing not herself why she had chosen to fixate on such a detail. They proceeded towards the rooms they previously occupied, and Charlotte slowed as they approached, warm in her cape and fur mantle now that they had returned to the well heated chambers being leant to the task of evaluating a new venture for the intelligence branch.

She had not realized she had stopped in the threshold between the two separate rooms, but she heard Ben’s voice, soft and low, and felt his breath against her neck as he leaned in to ask discreetly.  “Is everything all right?” 

She gasped, unprepared to be experiencing such a sensation, and nodded to reassure him.  “Oh. Yes.” 

Mr. Sackett looked up from his desk at the two, nodding briefly in acknowledgement before casting his eyes towards the bit of parchment upon which he scrolled, dipping his quill to finish committing his current thought to paper.

“Gentlemen,” Charlotte began, her tone warm and inviting but commanding attention.

Mr. Sackett looked up with a startled raise of his eyebrows, drawing his head back a bit in surprise, an amused smile twitching on his lips. He adjusted the direction of his upper body to indicate that he was devoting his attention to her.

“If I may, I should like to speak with you both,” she declared. “Together.”

Waiting for neither man to respond, Charlotte carefully unhooked the ornamental chain at her neck that held her mantle around her shoulders, and untied the velvet ribbon that tied her cape about her neck.

“Miss Adams has information she thought best conveyed to us promptly, and collectively.” Ben said, looking to Mr. Sackett for his acceptance of the idea.

She gave him a small, discreet smile in acknowledgement of his support, and he nodded with the same discretion in return.  In what she hoped was a graceful gesture, Charlotte swept both of the heavy garments off of her shoulders, folding them carefully in a cumbersome bundle over her forearms. 

“Eh-Well, yes…yes, of course,” Mr. Sackett assented, puzzled and taken aback by the initiative she was taking, yet pleased and rife with anticipation nonetheless.   He rose from his chair and gestured invitingly towards the opposite room where he and Ben had spent many hours, together as a pair and with General Scott, who was due to return in the late afternoon for more discussion before their their presentation to General Washington the following evening.   More disagreement and opposition to be endured, Sackett assumed. 

Charlotte entered the room, passing around him upon his exit, giving Mr. Sackett a reassuring smile.  “I shall join both of you presently.” 

 Mr. Sackett joined Ben, who had already chosen to stand beside the round table, his back to the hearth in the corner.  Mr. Sackett took his customary seat facing away from the doorway, and as he waited, he could hear the nearly inaudible sound of scraping wood and leather creaking slightly.  The young Dragoon, it seemed, was having trouble standing still as he waited.  Ben himself was entirely unaware that he was shifting his feet, listening carefully as he was to the surprisingly alluring sounds of rustling silk taffeta as Charlotte hurried to neatly stuff her cape and mantle onto the seat of her chair across the hall.  Satisfied that the heavy garments were contained in a respectable enough looking pile, she reached through her petticoats into her pocket to retrieve Major Andre’s calling card before crossing the hall.  Ben looked up, breathing through the newly familiar sensation now besieging him, one that he had quickly learned to associate with Charlotte’s presence… a deep, tight pressure in his chest swelling like a blunt wound, trapped beneath his ribcage the moment she appeared, remaining until her departure. He had found he could conjure to resurrection a shadow of this very sensation, alone at night in his tent, consumed by thoughts of her when at last the late hour came when he might cast his regimental worries for the day aside and seek comfort before falling asleep. 

“My apologies for the delay, Gentlemen,” Charlotte offered. She held the card in her right hand, behind her right pannier where it would not immediately be visible.

“It’s quite all right, Miss Adams,” Ben reassured her, bowing his head in another nod.

“If I may, interject, for a moment,” Mr. Sackett began, raising a crooked finger to capture their attention.

Charlotte nodded deferentially. 

Sackett first addressed Ben, uncertain exactly what knowledge of their adventures in attempting to convince General Scott to see past his own boots had been related to the young woman, but reasonably certain that the Dragoon would not have divulged such specific details, at least at this juncture. As such, he chose to speak vaguely, hoping he would not offend the young lady in his lack of inclusion, and expecting, given her apparent diplomatic rationale, that she would in fact take no offense.

“Our…old friend will be returning later this afternoon, followed by our most… distinguished friend and I’m certain our new friend would likely be most pleased to encounter the latter, but the arrival of the former raises concern given the precarious nature of this undertaking, especially now.” 

Ben was nodding, “Agreed,” he added.

“And thus,” Sackett continued, “I recommend that following the presentation of the information with which our new friend shall presently present us, she, with her consent of course, might first identify a location for me on a map, and thereafter depart to avoid a chance meeting.  With your permission, Miss Adams, for the duration of your stay here in New Jersey, I should like to continue meeting with you.  I am of the opinion that there is a great deal you might be taught in a very short time, given your obvious aptitude in areas of importance.” Mr. Sackett gave her a closed mouthed, hopeful smile.

 

“Yes, of course, Sir,” she replied, curtseying slightly in deference. “I would be most pleased to receive instruction at length.  I shall make myself available as you require me.”

 

Mr. Sackett smiled once more, delightedly this time.  “Very good, Miss Adams, very good.  Now!  What did you plan to tell us?”

 

“I thought that I might briefly convey, as best I might, an impression of my first visit to York City, as it pertains to those I expect to encounter in the future, and to what extent.”

She paused, waiting for the two men to state any objections, and hearing none, finding only receptive, placid expressions, Charlotte continued. “And…there was a particular incident I feel I need relate the details of for the purposes of remaining as perfectly honest as I might with my handler,” she searched Ben’s face, troubled to find he had furrowed his brow, holding his gaze for a moment in attempt to reassure him before including Mr. Sackett once more “and his esteemed colleague, as the circumstances of the regrettable transgression, and the aftermath associated therewith, may come to influence future endeavors.” She sighed, heavily.

 

“Please…what is it?”  Ben asked, shifting his weight about in his boots, leaning forward a bit across the table.

 

Charlotte scolded herself for mentioning the incident itself before having first briefly explained in more detail the nature of her social circumstances as they pertained to her visit to York City.  She would have to now concisely deliver the explanation, and hurried to do so.

 

“Our hostess in the city was a widowed Lady, a member of the peerage, and a friend of Aunt Woodhull since her childhood.  It is my understanding that she occupies a place of high social standing among those Loyalists in the city of rank and means.  As such, the opportunities to collect the kind of intelligence I brought here to New Jersey were plentiful, and mostly I needed only sit quietly and observe, with very little risk, I believed.” 

 

Ben had again begun shifting his feet about in impatience.  Charlotte met his eyes and continued, varying her eye contact between the two men as she related the information. 

“One evening I was invited along with my aunt and our hostess to attend a masquerade party to celebrate the coming new year.  They departed early, owing to the late hour, and I remained, with an assigned chaperone present, a woman of appropriate standing.”

Charlotte had decided to avoid relating any part of the tale which would necessitate including Tabitha in her narration.  

“I left the party early.  I feigned a mild illness and the Lady’s carriage was prepared for me with haste. I decided not to wait until the carriage had been brought around, and sought the service entrance I expected should reveal the courtyard.  There I found her carriage, and her men, and was invited to embark. However…” Charlotte paused, fiddling with the card behind her back.  “It was then I heard the sound of a young woman’s voice, calling to me. When I turned about I noticed she carried my capelet, which, in my haste, I had forgotten to ask to have retrieved.” She took a breath. “Somehow, whether through deception or advance planning, though I myself was certainly deceived, the Major himself, with whom I had an exchange…”

“What do you mean, an exchange?”  Ben asked, disgust plainly evident in his tone. 

“Let her finish,” Mr. Sackett demanded in a huff, his irritation evident.

Ben suppressed a disgruntled groan. 

Charlotte was desperate to reassure him, “The exchange in question was simply a brief, roundabout discussion in a quiet corner of his dining room, where others were present, some days before.  There was nothing about his behavior in our previous meetings to indicate that the incident I shall now describe was imminent.”  Charlotte paused to indicate she was returning to the story of the incident at the masquerade. “When my back was turned, as I waited for the woman who was calling out to me that she might return my garment, they must have switched…” 

Ben’s eyes widened.

Charlotte breathed deeply again, concerned about describing such an embarrassing and uncomfortable event to two men she decided she quite liked.

“When the capelet was placed over my shoulders, I felt...a sensation...a fright. He-“  she stopped, and the hard, impatient expression on Ben’s face vexed her.

“He draped it over me,” she lifted her hands now to mimic another’s placing the capelet over her shoulders, “and as he drew his hand back…he…he touched my face. Ungloved.  And asked why I was leaving so early.” 

“Damnit!” Ben growled, his tone low.  He began to pace, briefly, in a tight line.

“Oh, dear…” Sackett commented, taken aback, drawing his lips out and downward in a strange, frog like expression. 

Ben came to stand back in his original place, one hand on his hip, the other smoothing back stray pieces of his hair, which had come undone from his queue in the winter wind and were falling in his face. 

“Yes…” Charlotte agreed. 

Ben shuddered with rage at the thought. 

“What sort of man presumes to…touch a woman without her permission?” he demanded, at some volume, incensed. “Is this what we’re to expect from future trips to New York?  I’d rather she never set foot on the island again,” he declared.    

Charlotte turned to Mr. Sackett for guidance, unsure how to answer that question. She saw her prospects for assisting the intelligence branch disintegrating. 

“What followed?”  Sackett asked diplomatically.

Charlotte continued.  “I thought to say something, to correct him, or…to shout at him, but I was frightened, and so I simply got into the carriage.” 

“Do you suspect that he was inebriated?” Sackett queried, assuming as much given the merrymaking associated with such a party.

Charlotte nodded.  “I do. It would be unreasonable to assume otherwise, given the nature of the evening.  In fact…he apologized.”

Ben scoffed, a condescending nature to his tone. “Apologized?” 

“Before I left for New Jersey he came to call.  He apologized for his behavior, which he readily admitted was entirely improper.  Then asked that I forgive him, and offered me his…protection.”  Charlotte resisted the urge to wince as she spoke these words.

“ _His_ protection?” Ben sounded bewildered. “How did you respond?”

“I intimated that he was forgiven, explaining that said forgiveness was contingent upon his promise to never repeat anything of the sort again.”

Mr. Sackett thought for a moment, and then decided to ask Charlotte as directly as he possibly could about what was on his mind. 

“John Andre is known to be a keen observer.  What do you believe he knows of your background?”  Mr. Sackett asked.

“When first we spoke in private I made mention of my father, and of the fact that the Major must have a sense of who he was.”  Charlotte replied.

“You did?” Ben asked.  He was struck by the girl’s apparent bravery, and frightened by the notion that she was vulnerable in ways he had not yet considered.

Charlotte nodded, a contrite, anxious look on her face, and Ben felt a pang in his chest, hoping he hadn’t wounded her.  She felt she needed to explain her philosophy.

“When I began to…spy for you… I decided I would lie as little as I possibly could. If I have to, I certainly will, and carefully, with forethought.  But I believed…and still believe… that it would be easiest to remember small, necessary variations on the truth, and most difficult and dangerous to rely upon the telling and retelling of a multitude of elaborate tales in cases in which there is no real need for deception.  The less I lie, the more convincing I feel, and the more credible I believe that I appear.”

“Yes! Well done.  Very good,” Mr. Sackett lauded.  “You see?”  He said to Ben. “Precisely.  Civilians!  They make better spies.”

Ben nodded. “Forgive me…please, continue.”

“I spoke in jest to him on the subject of his profession, implying that he must be aware of my family’s overwhelmingly patriotic leanings, since little information on newcomers to their social circle likely escapes him. He asked where my allegiances lay, and I implied that I had little interest, as much of my current situation is governed by the actions of those around me, and not by choices of my own.”

“How did he receive this information,” Sackett asked.

“He seemed to appreciate my candor,” she offered, truthfully.    

“I see. When he came to apologize, did you have the impression that he was testing you?”  Mr. Sackett queried.

“He did seem ashamed, and genuinely regretful, but I could envision him as a consummate actor.  He did…give me this.” The bit of paper remained pinched between Charlotte’s fingers and thumb of her right hand, now folded across her chest. After the sweeping motion she had made over her shoulders, the dainty card went entirely unnoticed by the gentlemen, and nearly forgotten by the girl herself, awaiting presentation. She placed it on the table then, and guided it across the surface with her first finger, leaning over to lengthen her reach.  Ben leaned across in turn, his attention divided between the round brown eyes looking amorously up at him from upon her lovely face, and the convenient view her movement afforded him, unable to ignore the attractive arrangement of her bust in the plunging square neckline of her gown. 

Mr. Sackett stretched up in his chair and craned his neck to peek at what Ben held in his hands.  Ben ran the pads of his fingers over the heavy, fine paper, and the embossed seal. Charlotte waited, fingers clenched.

Ben snorted indignantly.  “John! He signed this, personally when gave this to you?”

Charlotte nodded, looking helplessly over at Mr. Sackett, then turned back to Ben.

She spoke slowly, certain he would understand her meaning.

“Yes…and _I’m_ giving it to _you_.”  Charlotte stared steadily into Ben’s eyes until he caught her meaning.

Mr. Sackett nodded, once, curtly.  “Yes. Quite.”  He cast a look of impatience in Ben’s direction to suggest his jealousy was unreasonable. 

Ben looked up from the card, which he appeared ready to destroy in a dramatic crumpling of fine fibers, to Mr. Sackett, who had raised his eyes mischievously. “Indeed, she has presented us with all manner of intelligence that she has been able to acquire. And in a timely manner. Although,” Sackett thought for a moment about his need to strike quickly, and he stood, leaning over, and swiped the card from Ben’s hand “You cannot keep this.” 

Mr. Sackett began examining the card himself, speaking half under his breath “…afraid you’ll destroy it before we might put it to use.”  

“Use it, yes,” Ben acknowledged, exasperated.  “But what are _his_ intentions?”

Mr. Sackett sighed and looked at Charlotte, nodding to encourage her to respond.

“I do not believe that his interest in me is of the romantic sort. I think he is curious about me, and about my circumstances, but I do not feel that he is personally inclined toward me. As…unnerving as the incident was, and as offended by his behavior as I find myself still, I do not believe that further threat is imminent, with respect to...attempts to pursue me. As a spy, however, I believe my threats lie everywhere.  I imagine, however, that we currently have an advantage, embarrassed and contrite as he presents himself to be.  Though I shall make no assumptions about a man who is likely well versed in appearing to be one thing when he is in fact another.”

“If we cannot keep her safe-“ Ben began.   

Charlotte felt words of protest forming on her lips, but Mr. Sackett held up a hand, reassuring but arresting. 

“Each task individually, Captain Tallmadge!” he insisted.  “Miss Adams,” Charlotte turned to him.  “As the hour grows late, would you consent to joining me in my study, before you depart?

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte agreed.  Sackett rose, and Charlotte lead the way back to the other room, with more haste than she imagined was necessary.  She sat as carefully as she might on the pile of garments she had placed on her chair, and Mr. Sackett flopped down in his own, making a grand gesture with his hands towards all the documents before him, as though overwhelmed with his own assemblage. 

“Ah!” he interjected, seeming to recall his purpose.  He lifted two moderately sized maps with one hand, sliding a third out from beneath it.  He dragged it carefully across the surface of the desk, and adjusted the angle that Charlotte might have a better look.  Recognizing details of the James River and coastal Virginia, Charlotte smiled. Ben had returned to his own tasks as set by Mr. Sackett, seated around the table in the opposite room, facing her.

“Now,” Mr. Sackett said “would you please identify, for me,” he produced a small, but sharp charcoal pencil, “the approximate location of your father’s plantation and the property it covers.” 

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. 

She leaned as elegantly as she might over the top of the map, seated as irregularly as she was, assessing the scale thoughtfully and comparing it with the bends in the river depicted, in order to make a proper determination. Ben watched intermittently when his attention allowed, as her expression took on a serene quality. She began carefully, finely, tracing a line over the parchment.  Ben’s mouth twitched in a smile moments later when he happened to look up from his book to see the toe of one of Charlotte’s riding boots rocking back and forth on the floor on its apex, the other hooked beneath her through a reinforcing rung on the chair as she loomed over the map.

“There are several smaller creeks,” she explained to Mr. Sackett. “That are not illustrated here.”

Mr. Sackett leaned in to examine her markings “Oh…oh I see, so the property extends to both sides of the river.  Very good.” He pinched the edge of the map and looked at her inquisitively, as though seeking permission. Charlotte nodded and Sackett slid the illustration around to face him properly. 

“Mr. Sackett?”  Charlotte asked quietly.

“Yes, my dear?”  He asked, turning his face to hers, and Charlotte suppressed a laugh at the charming fashion in which his spectacles had migrated from the bridge of his nose.

“If I am going to be…reporting here, to headquarters…should there not be some tale touted about camp, for those who are bound to ask about the presence of a young lady with no apparent role or attachment?  Something…unrelated to espionage?  Perhaps a story of fund raising efforts of sorts, for the cause? And you, with your great expanse of knowledge, might be…assisting me in the finer points of mathematics, as my small, female brain, much like those walnuts in that dish, balks at the notion of computation.”  She attempted to look pitiful in support of her joke.

Sackett laughed aloud.  “Yes, yes indeed. We shall have to contrive a narrative which, while not publicly heralded, will serve to allay the unfortunate inevitability of gossip.”

Charlotte lowered her voice to a whisper “If it becomes necessary, to corroborate the story, I can produce…or acquire…enough funds to make such a fundraising story seem plausible.  Such funds, I am certain my eldest brother, whose help I would certainly need, would gladly make available.” 

Sackett smiled warmly, resisting the urge to place his hand on top of the young lady’s and give it a reassuring pat.  His nurturing, paternal instincts towards the girl would render such a gesture innocuous, but he did not dare, their relationship not yet at such a point as to render it appropriate. 

Mr. Sackett raised his eyebrows, taking on at first the manner of a storyteller relating a tale of horror.  “And now, a rather stuffy General draws ever nearer these very chambers, likely with hopes of squelching plans for continuing in our ambitious endeavor…and so I feel it pertinent that we adjourn until our next meeting.”

“Yes, sir, I agree that would be wise,” Charlotte smiled.  “Shall I summon my man to ready the horses?”

Mr. Sackett nodded. 

Charlotte rose and crossed the hall, swishing past Ben in her taffeta with a soft, near whisper of  “Please forgive my interruption, Captain.”

“It’s no inconvenience, Miss Adams, I assure you.”  He turned about to look at her, watching with veiled interest as she stood visible in the tall, wide window, apparently waiting. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her stand at the panes for a few moments, until she seemed to perk up, rising up on the balls of her feet as she made a gesture through the glass.

Watching Philip make a grand, circular gesture with one finger in the air beside him, Charlotte nodded in agreement that he had indeed understood her request, and placed her hands together in mock prayer as a thank you.  She watched Philip nod, and turned away as he hopped down from the paddock fence in preparation to tack up the horses.  She turned from the window again and crossed through the rooms to rejoin Mr. Sackett, carefully unfolding her cape and her fox fur mantle to don first one and then the other.  Ben, aware all the while that she was soon to depart, rose from his seat and hesitantly crossed towards the threshold. 

“When shall I return?”  Charlotte asked, adjusting the fox furs around her shoulders. Mr. Sackett, who had already set about his next task, thought for a moment before replying.

“In…three days time.  At the same hour, preferably.” He did not look up from the documents before him, but Charlotte saw this as no insult, and rather a testament to the man’s work ethic.

Charlotte nodded, “Of course, Sir.”

“Perhaps all of this nonsense will then be sorted out,” he remarked, looking to his right to cast a knowing glance at Ben.

Ben nodded in agreement.  “Miss Adams, when you find yourself ready to depart it would be my pleasure to escort you to your mount.”

Charlotte maneuvered around Mr. Sackett’s chair with ease, and nodded to Ben.

“Thank you, Captain.  Good afternoon, Mr. Sackett.”

“Yes, good afternoon…” the distracted man intoned.

The two proceeded down the hallway towards the door, when Ben spun abruptly and faced her, his voice gentle, and low.

“Charlotte, wait.” She looked up at him with a hopeful expression, conveying, she hoped, her willingness to listen.

Ben looked about them for a moment, and then ducked into an unused study, beckoning her to follow.  She stepped through the threshold and nestled herself around a corner beside the doorway, concealing herself should someone unexpected happen to arrive. Ben drew nearer, hesitant, concerned that he might appear presumptuous, but Charlotte backed towards the wall, as though inviting him to follow and draw nearer.  The encouragement sent his heart to springing about within his chest, it felt, but he forced himself to concentrate on what he intended to communicate.  He leaned forward, at less than an arm’s length away from her, and she felt a thrilling shiver across her skin that seemed to nearly rattle her bones within.

“I chastised the Major for his behavior, and now I find that I must ask you for forgiveness of my own.  I reacted to your retelling strongly, with jealousy.  I felt…complicit in any danger you might have faced, for having allowed you to accept such an assignment without the tutelage from which you might have benefitted before entering the city.  I didn’t mean to question you harshly, if indeed my inquiries did seem that way.  But it is my hope that we shall both feel more at ease once Mr. Sackett embraces the opportunity to continue educating us in his multitude of practices.” 

Charlotte smiled.  “I worried only that I had disappointed you.” 

“No, Charlotte,” he replied, shaking his head slowly, her name a whisper on his lips.

Her eyes roved over him, desperately memorizing as quickly as she might in greater detail the images she would need to recover for herself as soon as he was out of her sight.  Her focus was drawn to his hands, and she resisted the urge to seize one, saying instead.

“It has been a trying day.”  She admitted.

Ben gave a small smile, and his expression once again turned serious.   When again he spoke his voice was deep, saturated with authority and purpose. 

“If I cannot keep you safe, I will withdraw you,” he swore.   

“Withdraw me to where?”  Charlotte asked, a smile on her lips.  She bit her bottom lip, as if to contain the excitement coursing through her veins, her voice heavily laced with flirtation.

“I…” Ben faltered. He knew to where, but wished not, at least at so early an opportunity, to say.  
“I shall give you time to think on it.  Promise it will not sound so appealing” Charlotte drew the word out luxuriantly “when next you broach the topic of relocating me.” She smiled at him. “That I might not find myself constantly looking ahead in time, past my duties to America.” 

Ben gave a short laugh.  “Agreed.”

“Philip will be waiting,” Charlotte lamented. 

Ben nodded, and turned to lead her out, but in her impulsivity she reached for him, seizing his left hand in her right.  He stopped and turned about as soon as her touch was felt, watching transfixed as Charlotte carefully turned his wrist around and held the back of his hand in hers as she raised his palm to her lips and placed a tender kiss thereupon. She neither hurried nor hesitated, but kept her lips upon his skin as long as she dared.  A rush of elation and pleasure surged through him and they held one another’s gaze pas his fingertips.  It was Charlotte who broke the spell.  She dropped his hand nearly as soon as she had sized it and exited with the Captain following behind her, opening the door for herself so avoid looking at his face and betraying how flushed her own had become.  She hurried down the steps towards Philip, a sort of escape from her own boldness, and seized her reins from him, stepping up onto another crate he had procured that she might mount.  Before Ben, who had descended the stairs behind her and stood several feet away on the snowy ground, was aware that she was preparing to mount, Charlotte had placed her foot in her stirrup and swung herself up into her saddle. Quickly, she arranged her right leg over her leaping horn and smoothed out her gown around her. Turning her horse about as Philip mounted, Charlotte looked to Ben, casting her eyes downward and speaking low.

“You’ll call on me, Captain?”  She asked.

“I will, Charlotte.  As soon as I am able…and as often as I might” he replied, stepping close, still reeling from the tingling sensation yet present on the soft skin of his palm. “The hours at which I do so, I am afraid, may be irregular.”

“I would receive you at any hour,” Charlotte insisted, unaware until she spoke how inappropriate her choice of words may have sounded, yet surprisingly unconcerned once she heard herself speak.  She turned to Philip, who nodded to signal his status as prepared for departure, and she nodded back to indicate they were leaving. 

“It is a charming brown farmhouse.  Newly built. With a red door. Three and one quarter miles north east.”

“I shall come to you,” Ben promised, earnestly.  “Without fail.” 

Charlotte beamed down at him, a smile he returned, before gathering her reins more tightly and urging Powhatan from a few steps of a walk into a canter, Philip closely behind.  Ben allowed himself to watch her leave for as long as he dared, then he turned about and briskly mounted the steps at headquarters once more. 


End file.
